Armageddon

0527

“No way that was anything but an unguided, lucky shot,” said McNamara, talking about the missile that had nearly clocked them. “They may have gone to the K-band range-only-radar when we jammed but I’d bet they had a general direction and just launched.”

Dog, completing the system check with the computer, didn’t respond. Lucky shot or no, the HAWK anti-aircraft system wasn’t something you could operate merely by throwing a switch. These weren’t raw kids they were dealing with. Whoever had been in the guidance trailers knew what they were doing.

They were also now dead. Both GBU-30s—also known as JDAM or Joint Direct Attack Munitions, bombs that steered themselves to specific GPS points—had struck their targets dead-on. The five-hundred-pound warheads had obliterated the guidance trailers and everything nearby.

“What’s the situation down there, Zen?” Dog asked.

“The trailers are fried. More missiles on the launcher at the south side. First launcher fired all three I think. Couple of gun batteries but they haven’t done anything. Hang on,” added the pilot, turning his small craft around for another survey.

“What about the Megafortress on the ground?” Dog asked.

“Same as before. The people who were going toward it ran back for the terminal. One of them was definitely Mack, but I think the person with him was a local, or maybe one of the guerillas. There are a bunch of guys in white clothes near them. I had an idea,” he added.

“What’s that?”

“Why don’t we eliminate the fuel trucks so the Megafortress can’t be refueled,” said Zen. “Keep it grounded for a while without doing any damage. Brunei Air Force only has one tanker. That was one of Mack’s big gripes. There are six over on the civilian side but they’re all parked by an auxiliary building. I can shoot up the pumping apparatus as well, but I’m not sure if there’s a backup.”

“They’ll just bring another truck in,” said Dog.

“At some point, maybe. But if you’re looking to keep them on the ground without taking apart the plane completely, that might work.”

It was a temporary measure to be sure, but it would be adequate for now. If the militants made any move to fuel it, they could still use the Flighthawk to disable it. Dog also could have Indy take a shot at cratering the ramp area from the military side of the airport.

“Let’s do it,” he told Zen.

“I’d like to launch Hawk Two,” added Zen, referring to the second Flighthawk.

“I don’t think we can;” said McNamara. “I have a fault on the program screen.”

“Nothing here,” said Zen.

“Can you do it with just Hawk One?”

“Not a problem.”

“Go„

Off the coast of Brunei

0530

Dazhou Ti turned the optical viewer to the left, making sure that the helicopter had gone. The viewer, similar to the periscope on a submarine, allowed him to survey the area without using his detectable sensors. Its field of vision was limited, however; he could see only a small swatch of the ocean or sky at a time.

The helicopter had left two or three men at the platform, but who they were wasn’t clear. He suspected either Australians or Americans, since he had not recognized the aircraft type as Malaysian—or Bruneian, for that matter.

It was hardly an academic point. A tug was due to meet him within an hour here. Despite considerable work by his crew, they had been unable to restart their main engines. Their emergency backup power was supplied by an electric generator. They had manually rerouted it to provide power to the in-port maneuvering system, but could make no more than two or three knots, and even that required shutting down the rest of the electrical systems. The power arrangements meant they could only use the ca

Still, it was not in Dazhou’s nature to do nothing. All his life he had seen boldness rewarded.

“We will move to the east side of the platform,” he told his crew. “When we arrive, we will send a boarding party. I will lead the party myself,” he added on the spur of the moment. “There are no more than three men on the platform; they should be easy to overcome.”

Brunei International Airport

0535

“They’re blowing up the fuel trucks,” said Mack as the Flighthawk tucked left and lit its ca

He had to hand it to Zen—he was an efficient SOB. Anyone else would have taken two or three passes. But here the pilot had gone for the trifecta, swooshing three trucks in the space of maybe ten seconds.

“Why are they doing that?” said Sahurah next to him.

Mack shrugged, though he knew the answer—they didn’t want the EB-52 to take off, but had decided for some reason to hold off on blowing it up.

Lucky for him.

“You saved my life,” said Sahurah as the Flighthawk swooped upward. “Why?”

Good question, thought Mack.

“Why did you save me, or not try to escape?” asked Sahurah when he didn’t answer.

“Just stupid, I guess,” said Mack, watching as the Flighthawk made another pass and another fuel truck erupted in flames.

*   *   *

WHY HAD THE INFIDEL SAVED HIS LIFE? WONDERED SAHURAH.

Had God moved him to do so?

Or had the devil?

What if neither had? What if he had acted solely on his own?

Sahurah put his hand on his hip over his holster, contemplating what had happened. He had been taught that Westerners, Americans especially, were thoroughly corrupt and without virtue. He’d seen ample examples of this during his life.

And yet the actions of his prisoner, surely meant to save him, were against every expectation. It was one thing for the man to be strong and brave—these were things he expected, considering that Mack Smith had an important position. But his actions were beyond that.

“Commander!” shouted one of his men, ru

“Yes,” said Sahurah. “Take Mr. Smith back to the building where he was held. Treat him with the greatest respect.” He turned to Mack. “Remember, you are a prisoner.”

“Hard to forget,” replied Mack, following them toward the building.

Over western Brunei, near Sukut

0540

McKe