Armageddon

Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia

0800

Dazhou Ti felt as if the terrace he was standing on had given way and he was now falling toward the sea. The smokestack of the tug that had brought him to the seaside town loomed below, a black whirlpool sucking him toward that abyss.

General Udara had traveled to the seaside town to speak to Dazhou personally: not to berate him for losing the Barracuda, but to tell him that the war was over. The sultan was to be allowed to regain his kingdom.

“Impossible,” said Dazhou, who had only finished notifying the kin of his dead crewmen an hour before. “Impossible.”

“The president has decided,” said Udara.

“No. No. My men have died.” The general was not a man to argue with, but Dazhou could not help himself. “No,” he repeated. “This ca

“You of all people should know they’re not,” said Udara. “They proved it in their encounter with your ship. This all helps us in the long run,” added the general, trying to remain upbeat. “Because the guerillas will be taken care of by the Americans. Leaving the maggot sultan and his family alone is a small price for ridding ourselves of the fanatics. Kuala Lumpur has spoken,” he said. He referred to the central command, not the prime minister, and meant that the matter was closed.

“No,” said Dazhou.

Udara’s patience was now exhausted. His face flushed, its brownish tint becoming nearly purple with his rage.

“You will accept your orders, Chinaman!” he thundered. “You will do as you are told!”

“My men,” Dazhou said. “They must be revenged”

“You will do as you are told. You are lucky, Dazhou, that I remember the contributions you have made, and your own glory under fire. Because otherwise I would pummel you with these two fists.”

Their faces were so close that Dazhou felt the heat of the general’s rising blood. He knew that the proper action now—no matter what he really intended—was to feign submission, to pretend to be willing to go along with his orders. But he could not control his emotions sufficiently to make an accommodating gesture, even a small one. The best he could do was keep himself from yelling back at the general.

“Do you understand me, Dazhou?” said Udara.

“I have no ship,” he managed finally.

The general took a step away. “Then the matter is settled.”

Dazhou didn’t respond. Udara had not berated him for losing the Barracuda, but this was completely in character for the general. Since he had nothing to do with its creation or operations, Udara looked on it as just another weapon, little more than a jeep or armored car that could go to sea.

Kuala Lumpur would have a considerably different view. Dazhou’s options were clear. Either he ran, or he sought revenge.

“Do you understand me?” Udara said, once more master of his emotions.

“I have no ship,” Dazhou repeated. “And no men.”

Udara nodded grimly. “War is a difficult thing.”

Somehow, Dazhou managed to nod, rather than telling the general what he really thought of his easy cliché.

Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)

1000

Sahurah’s head throbbed constantly, a sharp thump at the top and right side, God’s drumbeat calling him to task for his failures.

How could he doubt the wisdom of his teachers?

How could he think that the devil American was as honorable and holy as he?

Sahurah tried to set the questions aside, tried to ignore his transgressions, his many failings. He had to concentrate on his duties. Brothers were streaming into the city, each one willing to do what needed to be done, but each needing to be shown his responsibilities step by step. Sahurah had selected several deputies, but they still turned to him for orders. He had become the most important person in the capital, after the imam.

Success had been incredibly swift; not even in his dreams would Sahurah have thought things would go so well. And yet, when he thought of this, when he saw the obvious sign that Allah had blessed them, his head pounded even more. He wanted—what did he want?

His place in Paradise. Nothing beyond that.

One of his lieutenants, a young man named Dato, appeared at the door and was searched by the two bodyguards who had attached themselves to him since the attack at the airport. Dato had come from near Djakarta, and a slight accent of the poorer districts around the Indonesian city lingered on his tongue when he spoke.

“Fifty more brothers have come to watch the road to the south,” said Dato in Malaysian. “We need weapons”

“What about those at the police station?”

“The weapons there have been given out.”

“The armory?” asked Sahurah.

“What wasn’t blown up by the nonbelievers is so antiquated we have no ammunition for it,” explained Dato.

The pain in Sahurah’s head subsided as he focused on the problem. “We can give them trucks, and the supplies taken from Tutong. Deliveries have been promised from our allies. But we ca

Another of Sahurah’s men came to the door. This was Paduka, a native of the capital who had proven invaluable in finding sympathetic friends.

“Two pilots,” a

“Who?”

“His name is Captain Yayasan. He’s in the hallway.”

“Is he a sincere believer?”

“We have spoken many times before today,” said Paduka. He told him of an encounter the pilot had had at the start of the offensive when he had feigned cowardice to avoid shooting at a unit of brothers.

“He would have done better to have shot down the other plane,” said Sahurah at the end of the story. “Bring him in. Let me talk to him.”

“Just him? Or both men?”

“Just him.”

Sahurah turned to the table where a map of the area had been laid out. He showed Dato where the brothers were to be deployed. A network of reinforcements had to be established. They had machine-guns mounted in several pickup trucks; they could bring firepower within a few minutes if attacked.

They lacked heavy weapons; Sahurah was hardly a military strategist, but he understood that this was a great weakness.

Paduka and the pilot Yayasan stood silently as they finished. Sahurah turned to them. Yayasan was a short man, no taller than five-three; his face had sharp, tight angles.

“You believe?” Sahurah asked.

“I—I do,” said Yayasan.

The hesitation reassured Sahurah. He glanced at the pilot’s hands. His fingers moved as if they were on fire.

Sahurah recognized that the man would crumble under pressure, and that as much as his faith may have accounted for his decision not to fire on the brothers the other day. He could be used, but very carefully.

“Could you teach the other pilots how to fly the large American plane?”

“My lord, of course.”

The top of Sahurah’s head pummeled him. “I am not a lord. I am nothing but a servant. Address me as ‘Commander’.”

“Pardons, Commander.” The pilot’s fingers vibrated ever more violently.

“What do we need?” asked Sahurah.

“I would have to examine the aircraft, Commander.”

Sahurah nodded, then looked at Paduka. “There is a man at the terminal, he piloted a 747. He told me last night he would be able to fly the large aircraft. Yayasan will teach him. And the other man you found.”

“Yes, Commander.”

The guards at the door snapped to attention. Sahurah turned to see the imam and the Saudi. An entourage of bodyguards and others flooded into the room behind them. Though the room was fair-sized, it now seemed crowded.

“Imam,” he said, bowing his head.