Armageddon

It was debatable whether Mack’s attempt at camaraderie would have worked in the States, where someone at least would have understood the expressions he was using. The only effect it had on Han was to confuse him. Mack opened the letter reluctantly.

“You’re really leaving me?”

Han’s English was heavily accented, but Mack got the gist of it. The new regime—Minister Mack—had brought too much change.

Mack waved his hand. “You’re free,” he told him. “Go. Hit the road.”

Han bowed again. Mack simply shook his head. He was now down to four legitimate pilots, plus himself.

Brea

“Captain,” he said as she rolled down the window. “We’re ru

“I’m sorry,” said Brea

“I’ll bet,” he said, interpreting her words as a euphemism for sex.

“We were at the police ministry,” she said. “We tried calling you”

“Police ministry? What’d you do? Get nailed for speeding?”

Mack listened, dumbfounded, as Brea

“This for real, Bree?” he asked.

“Bet your ass it was real,” growled Zen from the other side. “Who were these jokers?”

“Police weren’t sure,” said Brea

“Not on that beach. That’s the prince’s beach,” said Mack. “Maybe they missed the sign,” said Zen.

“Maybe they were trying to get the prince,” said Mack. “Police said that was impossible,” said Brea

“That’s because they don’t think it’s possible,” said Mack. “They don’t think that way—they don’t think like you and me.”

“Listen, about the exercise tonight, we’re going to have to call it off,” said Brea

“What?” said Mack.

“They asked me to go over to see one of their intelligence people for a debriefing. I told them fine”

“Well, sure, after the exercise.”

Brea

Mack had enough experience with Brea

“Fine,” said Brea

“Oh wait, I can’t do it tomorrow night. I have some di

“Blow it off,” said Zen sardonically.

Mack pretended he didn’t hear. “How about early the next morning, just before dawn? Say four or five?”

“Dawn?”

“Yeah, that would work,” said Mack. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Bree. You owe me”

“Owe you? How?”

“I got you that beach,” said Mack.

“Oh there’s a debt to be repaid,” said Zen.

“I’ll do it. We’ll set it up tomorrow,” said Brea

“Great,” said Mack. “Just great.”

Washington, D.C.

6 October 1997 (7 October Brunei), 0743

“Hey, Colonel:’ said Jed Barclay, pulling up in front of the suburban motel where Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian had been waiting. “Sony I’m ru

“It’s okay,” said Dog, aware that his voice probably suggested the opposite.

“Want to grab a coffee?” asked Barclay.

“I had breakfast”

“Yes, sir.”

Barclay pulled out into the traffic. Though he looked like he belonged in college—if that—Jed was the National Security Council’s assistant director for technology and the right-hand man for national security advisor Philip Freeman. He was the unofficial go-between used by the president and the NSC for directing Dreamland’s “Whiplash” operations, and just about Dog’s only real ally in Washington. The colonel felt bad about snapping at him, but he was in a foul mood; his daughter and son-in-law had been involved in some sort of incident in Brunei, of all places. While they were fine, the call he’d gotten a few hours ago about it had cost him the last sliver of sleep he’d been counting on before this morning’s meeting with the president. Brunei and Washington were exactly twelve hours apart; when it was day there it was night here, and vice versa.

“Hotel okay?” asked Jed.

“Fine. Listen, I didn’t mean to bark at you there. I just don’t want to be late for the meeting.”

“Well, we won’t be,” said Jed. “I got a heads-up. The president is ru

“I thought I was his first appointment.”

“You were. But they slid in some domestic stuff and the chief of staff called last night to slide back the appointment. We’re not on until nine-thirty. And given the way things usually go …”

Dog curled his hands in front of his chest. The president was the president, and you waited for him, not the other way around. And surely there were many important things on his plate.

But this wasn’t a good sign.

“I didn’t have time for breakfast myself,” added Jed.

“Let’s get something then,” said Dog, acceding.

Jed described the restaurant as a “coffee place,” but if that was true, it was the fanciest coffee place Dog had ever been in. A hostess greeted them and escorted them across a thick, plush carpet to a table covered with three layers of thick linens. Dog recognized two senators and one of the aides to the vice president at different tables along the way.

“The NSC’ll pay, don’t worry,” said Jed before Dog opened the thick, leather-bound menu.

That prepared him, somewhat, for the prices. Dog told the waitress he just wanted coffee. She nodded, men turned to Jed. “Feta omelet. Light toast. Right?” she asked.

Jed nodded.

“You come here a lot?” said Dog.

“Uh, Mr. Freeman does. And so, because of that, I do.”

“He’s going to drop in on us?”

“He might,” admitted Jed.

“You might have warned me,” said Dog, finally understanding that Jed’s delays and hunger were part of a prearranged plan.

“I am warning you,” said Jed. He closed his mouth as the waitress approached, not continuing until she left. “Look, the president has already made up his mind on Brunei.”

“Brunei doesn’t need a fleet of fighter jets. Or Megafortresses, for that matter,” said Dog.

“The president isn’t going to reverse the Megafortress decision, Colonel. Not even for you. The two other planes are to go to Brunei as soon as they’re ready.”

“With Flighthawks?”

The Flighthawks, or U/MF-3s, were among Dreamland’s most prized possessions. “U/MF” stood for “unma

“That’s still to be decided,” said Jed.

“We have to protect our technology, Jed.”

“I don’t disagree. But it’s not my call.”

“You’re not in favor of any of this, are you? Rewarding their cooperation in dealing with China is one thing, but giving our technology away to countries that don’t need it and have their own agendas—”

“They are allies.”

“For now.”

“It’s not my call,” said Jed. “I think we’ll hold the line on the Flighthawks. And probably the F-15s. But they do have a legitimate need for surveillance aircraft, and for more modern fighters. And they’ll buy from the Russians if not us.”

“Did you try pushing LADS?” asked Dog. “They could buy that system with the money they’ll spend on jet fuel for one Megafortress over the course of a year.”