Armageddon

He came back and looked for another target beyond the thick cloud of black smoke. A long dirt road ran through the jungle toward a paved road to the west; Zen followed along it but saw nothing. He saw a reflection from a ridge to the north as he turned and headed toward it, guessing that there was a spotter using binoculars there. Sure enough, he saw figures scrambling and caught the outline of a gun in the magnified viewer. Zen pushed down to fire at them but by the time he got in range they had ducked away; he pounded the ground with shells but it was like trying to hit a flea with a spitball.

“Ground is reporting that they’re no longer under mortar attack,” said Brea

“Yeah,” said Zen. He climbed back in the direction of the air base. “If you can get them to mark the position, I’ll make a pass with the ca

“The guerillas are in white and they’re coming up the ravine,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah, I see them,” said Zen. He pushed the Flight-hawk’s wing down, swooping into a wide arc to the far side of the ravine the enemy was using for cover. Zen walked the Flighthawk down the ditch, working the ca

“Zen, can you do that one more time? They want to use you as cover for a counterattack,” said Brea

“Hawk leader,” he confirmed, pulling back around and repeating his run from the opposite direction. He could see movement on both sides of the ravine but concentrated on the ditch itself, which had ten or twelve soldiers in it.

“You talk to Alou?” he asked Brea

“Negative.”

Zen’s path brought him over the airfield. He could see the other Megafortress at the end of the runway. Part of its right wing had been chewed off by an explosion and the nose had been mangled. The plane rested on its belly.

“Zen, I’m picking up a distress signal on the UHF band,” said Brea

“Yeah,” he said as the chirp flooded over the circuit. “Did Indy get off the field?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Stand by. Let me see if I can track it down.”

Zen spotted someone moving near the aircraft. He hoped they’d gotten out and the signal was just a glitch.

“I have the source three and a half miles south of the base,” said Brea

“Roger that,” said Zen, pulling the Flighthawk around.

Malaysian air base

1254

Starship didn’t realize that Kick had stayed back near the plane until the gunfire had nearly stopped. One of the Special Tactics people had found a medical kit and was trying to clean and bandage Starship’s arm, which he’d bashed up pretty badly somewhere along the way.

“I’m okay. I have to go back and get my friend out,” Starship told him. “I’m really all right.”

“Just hang on until the area’s secure,” said the air force special operations soldier.

“Yeah, okay,” said Starship. But he stood up and started moving toward the aircraft anyway. He saw a Flighthawk whip overhead and unleash its ca

“Kick,” he said, moving again toward the plane. “Kick!”

The joints in his knees were so unsteady he wobbled from side to side as he reached the wing of the giant plane. He hauled himself up, using the Flighthawk to get a boost, and then ran up along the top of the big plane. He navigated around the hatchways to the rear compartments and threw himself down to peer inside the opening over the pilot’s seat.

Major Alou stared up at him, his face a macabre death mask. “I’m sorry,” he told Alou.

He looked to the right but didn’t see Kick. “Kick! Kick! You asshole!” he shouted to his friend. “Get the hell out of there! Kick! What are you doing?”

He thought he heard Kick’s voice behind him somewhere. He looked around but didn’t see him. There was another shout, and he crawled to the side of the plane.

“Lieutenant, you better get off that plane,” shouted the Air Force Special Tactics soldier from the edge of the runway. “You’re an easy target up there”

“My friend—Kick, the other Flighthawk pilot. He went back inside.”

“No, sir, he’s down here”

“He is?” Starship climbed down the front of the smashed up windscreen and bashed nose, jumping to the ground. His knees gave way and he crumpled in what seemed like slow motion. As soon as he hit the ground he rolled back up and started to run to the side of the field.

“Kick, Kick, you idiot, where the hell are you?”

The Air Force Special Tactics soldier caught him from the side with his tree trunk arm.

“Lieutenant. Your friend—”

Starship turned and looked at him. The soldier shook his head. Starship shook his head as well.

“He can’t be dead. I pulled him out,” said Starship.

“I think he was dead when you pulled him out,” said the man. “Listen, we have to fall back to the bunker area until reinforcements come in. We don’t know how many more of these bozos are out there in the jungle. We’re down to six guys who can handle a weapon, not counting you and me.”

“I can’t leave Kick,” said Starship. “Where is he?”

“Sir, you’re going to have to leave him,” said the soldier. “Or you’re going to be dead, too.”

“He can’t be dead.”

“This way,” said the sergeant, starting to trot up toward the bunker.

Starship stared after him for a moment. Then, against his conscious will, his legs propelled him to follow.

Southeastern Brunei

Exact location and time unknown

The man with the gun prodded Mack down the pathway past a cluster of small houses to a turnoff that led to a long wooden platform above the slope. At the far end of the platform sat a small building constructed from chipboard. Inside, Mack found several women holding or sitting with children on the floor of the single room. The far wall was a screen overlooking a rock-strewn slope down to the stream Mack had walked along earlier. A man with a pistol stood in front of the screen; he glanced nervously at Mack as his escort left him, then went back to watching out the side.

Unsure of the situation, Mack decided that his best course for now was to say nothing until he could puzzle out whether the men with the guns were terrorists who had invaded the settlement, or if they were the husbands of the women trying to protect them. But no one said anything, either to Mack or each other, outside of an occasional soft whisper to children who were fidgety.

“Are you for the government?” asked Mack finally. No one answered.

“Sultan?” he asked. But that didn’t draw a response, either.

“U.S.A?”

Nothing.

“Could I have some food?”

Still nothing. Mack propped his hands on his knees and leaned forward, baffled by the situation.

North of Meruta

1348

Dog heard the whispery jet engine approaching from the north and realized it had to be a Flighthawk. He pulled the PRC radio from his pocket and switched it to voice.

“Colonel Tecumseh Bastian to Dreamland Flighthawk. You’re approaching my position,” he said.

The only response was static. Dog cupped his hand over the earphone as he broadcast and listened again.

“Dog, this is Zen. I should be just crossing overhead,” said the pilot finally.

“Yeah, I see you,” said the colonel as the black dart came overhead. “We were ambushed further up on the road. The terrorists got one of our guys.”

“I saw the Hummer. Da

“Da

“He’s about fifteen minutes away. Pilot wants to claim a new speed record for an A-6,” said Zen. The transmission crackled and faded but then came back. “Can you find a good place for him to land?”