Armageddon

There were medals for everyone, from Dog to the maintainers who had pitched in and cleared the Badger wreckage from the field at Brunei IAP. Mack Smith seemed to become almost humble as the sultan honored him in what seemed to be a knighting ceremony, making him officially “A Constant Protector of the Kingdom,” a title that seemed to have been invented especially for the occasion, and one which apparently gave Mack a million dollar a year pension for life.

It figured that Mack would land with his boots in lucky shit.

Starship had taken the loss of Kick pretty hard. Zen didn’t blame him. Dog had already arranged some time off for the kid, and suggested that he spend it in Hawaii—where, it just so happened, the MC-17 was bound this afternoon.

And, another coincidence surely, the sultan of Brunei happened to own a nice hotel suite that wasn’t going to be used by the royal family for the foreseeable future.

Prince bin Awg, who before the revolt had had a reputation as a lightweight partier, had proved himself anything but. Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay had told Zen last night that the prince was working behind the scenes to make sure his uncle kept his promise about bringing democracy to the country sooner rather than later.

Maybe he would. He had proven remarkably resilient, even taking the destruction of his aircraft collection in stride. Zen decided he would try to keep an open mind—at least for the next eighteen hours they were to spend on Brunei.

“So you ready to resume our picnic?” Brea

“I don’t really feel like picnicking,” he told her.

“You want to stay for the reception?” She glanced toward the side of the large palace room, where the crowd of dignitaries was heading toward the first of several large parties pla

“Of course not,” said Zen. “Dog said we could slip out, and I’m taking him at his word”

“What then?”

“Why don’t we go to the restaurant at the hotel, sit in the quiet corner way in the back, have lunch—then go upstairs for some personal time in the room”

Brea

“You look good in that scarf,” Zen told her. She’d had to cover her head for the ceremony—even heroes were expected to be modest, at least when they were women.

“Maybe I’ll wear it at after lunch,” Brea

“I don’t think so,” said Zen. And then, remembering their last telephone conversation before things got tight on Brunei, he added, “Maybe we can discuss the kid thing later.”

“The ‘kid thing’?”

“Yeah. We can talk about it.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant and honest at the same time. He wasn’t so sure about the former, but the latter was a must. “I haven’t made up my mind. We need to seriously talk.”

“We are,” she said. She bent over and kissed him.

“Fight fair,” he told her.

“Who’s fighting?”

JENNIFER HAD DONNED A LONG DRESS WITH AN ELABORATE scarf as a sign of propriety for the ceremony. It was everything Dog could do to keep himself from staring at her the whole time. He managed to get next to her as they walked to the reception room in the palace and gently touched her elbow.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispered.

“I’m the only woman here,” she said.

There were others, actually, but Dog had a ready answer. “As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“That’s good,” she said, sliding her arm through his. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk with your wife.”

“What?” said Dog.

“I thought it might be fun.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Should I be threatened?”

“Hardly.”

She reached up and touched the side of his face. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

Dog looked into her eyes. He felt an almost irresistible urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. The only reason he didn’t was the certainty that he’d never settle for a kiss.

“Colonel, excuse me. Can I have a word?”

Dog turned. Major Mack Smith—now Sir Lord Protector of the Kingdom Mack Smith—stood next to him.

“You have poor timing, Major.”

“I’m sorry” He turned to Je

“You feeling okay, Major?” asked Dog. Ordinarily, Mack didn’t apologize to anyone, not even him.

“I’m fine. Can we talk? Over here, out of the way.”

Dog followed Mack toward the side of the room, away from the swirl of dignitaries and officials filling the hall.

“I want to come back to Dreamland,” said Mack.

“But you’re rich. You’re a hero here.”

“This isn’t for me. I don’t want the money:’

Dog looked at Smith. He’d been through a lot, not just during his brief captivity but in the weeks leading up to it.

“You can’t just walk away from the sultan and the prince. The air force needs you.”

“They have McKe

“Mack, I don’t think I’ve heard you say that about anyone,” said Dog.

Smith shrugged. “Can I come back?”

“Well, uh, sure. Of course. I mean, I don’t know if I have a specific slot but, of course. We can work it out”

“Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate it.”

“Where are you going?” Dog asked as Mack turned around.

“Take a walk, get some food. Get my gear. Say good-bye for me, would you?”

“Mack—”

Smith didn’t stop.

Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)

24 October 1997, 1320

Sahurah made his way slowly down the street. With each step, the pain pummeled the side of his head. But soon—very, very soon—he would be free of pain.

He would be in Paradise.

When he was fifty feet from the entrance of the hotel, he saw a man walking toward him. At first glance, something about the man caught his attention. It was not simply the fact that the man was a Westerner. There was something about the stride that was hauntingly familiar. Though the sides of his head pounded, Sahurah stopped in the street.

It was the man who had saved him at the airport, Smith.

How was it that he was still alive? And here?

Only if he was a devil, surely.

Sahurah started to run toward the hotel.

MACK SAW THE MAN IN THE LONG COAT GLARE AT HIM, THEN bolt for the nearby building.

Weird stinking place, he thought to himself.

Then he realized who it was.

“Hey!” he yelled, chasing after the man. “Hey!”

The man reached the threshold of the hotel. Mack yelled at the doorman to stop him. As he did, he tripped over the step and lost his footing, flying headfirst into the ornate pillar that separated the portico from the building. He managed to get to his knees and somehow slid forward, pushing himself toward the man.

“Stop him!” he yelled, pushing past the guards.

Sahurah glanced over his shoulder as he entered the doorway of the restaurant. Mack half leapt, half fell, stretching out his arm in a desperate attempt to grab the terrorist.

“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK,” SAID BREANNA, GETTING UP FROM THE table. “I have to use the powder room”

“I’ll be here,” said Zen. He maneuvered his chair slightly to get a glimpse of the pianist, who was set up in the corner near the front of the large room. Brea