Armageddon

0615

“They claim they’re a Malaysian salvage tug,” McNamara told Dog after he was able to raise the approaching ship on the maritime radio bands. “Damn nervous, too. They say they’re civilians, answering an emergency call from a Malaysian naval vessel.”

“Tell them they can recover the people in that small boat, but if they go within five hundred yards of that platform, we’ll sink them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How you looking, Zen?”

“Could use a refuel.”

“Now’s as good time as any,” said Dog. He started to climb, laying out a track where he could have the computer fly the Megafortress while the Flighthawk took fuel through the special boom below her tail. “Meet you at eighteen thousand feet.”

“Hawk leader.”

Dog checked in with Da

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command frequency. “Dreamland, this is Colonel Bastian. Ask Major Alou if he can push up his schedule in Indy; we’re out of ammo. Then see if you can locate Jed Barclay and get him in touch with me. I have some information he’s going to find very important, diplomatic type information.”

“Right away, Colonel,” said Major Catsman.

Brunei International Airport

0800

They gave Mack a breakfast of some sort of fruit and then left him alone in a basement room of the terminal. He spent the time stewing, berating himself for saving Sahurah rather than sending the idiot to the fuel trucks where he could have had the fiery death a terrorist deserved.

The concrete had scraped the palms of his hands and little specks of blood dotted the flesh; he had cut up the side of his face as well and could feel it swelling. Tired, he lay down on the floor next to the wall—there were no chairs or other furniture in the room—staring at the ceiling but not sleeping. He was still there when the door opened and two men came in.

“Mr. Mack Smith, you are to come with us,” said one of the men. He held a Beretta in his hand; Mack noticed that the gun shook slightly.

“Okay,” said Mack. He pulled himself up slowly. The other man stood back by the door with some sort of rifle; the gun had a folding metal stock and looked as if it had been cut down. Though both were in their thirties, the men were clearly nervous, and Mack moved as deliberately as possible, aware that their fear was probably twice as dangerous as their weapons. The light in the hallway hurt his eyes; he held his hand over his head as he walked to the stairway. The two men stayed behind him, and Mack thought of making a break for it when he reached the top. But there were other guards there, younger but just as jumpy, their bodies visually twitching as he approached.

The Brunei airport would never make a ranking of the busiest airports in the world or even Asia, but it looked positively forlorn now, an empty plain of concrete and roadways. Only two vehicles were in the parking lots as Mack was led from the building. One was a burned out Toyota that sat in a black heap near the main entrance to the terminal. The other was a white pickup truck, also a Toyota, idling near the access road a few hundred yards away. The men led Mack to it, then made him get up into the back.

This’ll be easy, he thought, envisioning jumping off the side. But then two other men approached with chains and manacles. They locked his hands and then chained his leg to the back of the truck with several sets of combination locks. Mack settled against the side, sweating in the sun until the truck set out.

Zamboanga International Airport (Andrews Air Base), Philippines

0805

Brea

“Just in time,” Alou said as Brea

Brea

Alou recapped the situation—Jersey had been located at the airport; it was out in the open and an easy target. But at the moment it wasn’t fueled and didn’t seem likely to be used. Their orders directed them to preserve it for the sultan unless the terrorists made an overt attempt to use it as a weapon. They would patrol over the island and destroy it if any attempt was made.

Da