Armageddon

Brunei International Airport

1242

Prince bin Awg’s MiG-19 sat in the center of Hangar Two, an access ladder propped to its cockpit. McKe

The tractor filled the hangar with thick diesel exhaust as she stomped on the pedal and got it moving forward. The vehicle—its vintage was uncertain, but it had Chinese lettering on the dash—groaned as it tugged the MiG out of the hangar. The two Whiplash troopers helping her were just pulling up with the fuel truck that had been in the other hangar. McKe

“Fuel it! Let’s go! Let’s go!” she yelled, ru

Prince bin Awg’s engineers had updated some of the systems, mostly with Chinese equipment intended for the vastly updated J-6, whose design was based on the MiG-19 family. The radio was state-of-the-art, and a small GPS device had been jury-rigged to the right panel. Otherwise, the cockpit remained exactly as it had been when this model rolled off the line at Gorki in 1957—primitive even by Russian standards. McKe

“All right, that’s good,” she yelled at the men outside with the jet fuel. Her tanks were more than half full—more than enough to get her where she had to go. “All right, go. We’re going. See you at the end of the war.”

The twin Tumansky turbojets groaned as she brought them on line. Even with the brakes set the aircraft moved forward, and in fact when she removed them there seemed almost no difference. McKe

But she appreciated challenges.

The engines responded quickly as she goosed the throttle. The plane drifted right as she shot down the runway; remembering her earlier problem she treated the controls as gingerly as possible. As she hit one hundred and eight knots she began her takeoff rotation, lifting her nose wheel five degrees. But the MiG stayed stuck to the ground. Her forward air speed dogged, the aircraft struggled despite its lightish load; finally she managed to get it up, passing one hundred and sixty knots, just enough to lift off the ground. She crossed to the right, trying to stay clear of the area where the helicopters had been, climbing slowly and heading toward the ocean.

Now that she was airborne, the MiG’s speed built nicely, climbing up over two hundred and fifty knots. The controls got a bit lighter as she flew, and McKe

But there was plenty of time to worry about that. McKe

*   *   *

“MIG IS OFF,” THE HELICOPTER PILOT TOLD DANNY.

“Pick up our guys,” Da

“Da

“They asking for assistance?”

“They’ve radioed out to a Malaysian unit in the area. They didn’t get a response.”

Da

“We’re ready to blow hangar one, Cap,” said Liu, breaking in. One had the Sabre and the Hunter, which McKe

“All right, Jen, I’ve got a few things to attend to here. I’ll get back with you”

Da

“Can we use their jet fuel?” Da

“We can use standard jet fuel, if that’s what it is,” said the pilot.

Da

“If I can smell it, I can tell if it’s okay,” said the chopper pilot while they waited.

“You sure?”

“Look, jet fuel’s jet fuel, right?”

Da

Just one helicopter. He didn’t want to leave the platform unprotected.

“Whiplash Commander, this is Dreamland Command.”

“Freah”

“Da

“Bottom line it, Major.”

“Bottom line is you’ll blow the warranty if you use commercial jet fuel—yeah, it’ll work.”

“Thanks”

Pandasan coastal patrol base, Malaysia (north of Brunel)

1243

Dazhou Ti tightened the grip on the pistol as he strode across the dock to the wooden plank that had been thrown over to the side of the ship by his boarding party. He could feel the beat of his blood pulsing in his head, everything a rush. One of his men stepped across the deck as he came onto the ship, saluting smartly.

“The captain is in the bridge,” said the sailor.

Dazhou nodded and continued through the hatch into the ship’s superstructure, aware that he was being watched, aware that his course now was set and irrevocable. He went up to the bridge, where his men held the captain and another officer at gunpoint.

“You are with us, or you will die,” Dazhou told the captain, pointing his pistol at the man.

The ship’s captain had served under Dazhou two years before on the Perkasa, a coastal patrol ship. Until this moment he might even have considered himself a friend, though Dazhou had not included him in the i

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the captain.

Dazhou pressed the pistol against his cheek. “I would think it would be clear enough.”

“I am with you, of course, Captain,” said the man. “But your aim—I don’t understand.”

“We are going to assist the forces that have taken over Brunei,” said Dazhou. “There is an American force attempting to help them. We will attack them, and then we will find other targets.”