Armageddon (3 page)

The boat sat about five or six yards offshore, a line at the stern anchoring her. The shore here was lined with trees; Breanna saw a path at the right side, though it wasn’t clear what was beyond it.

“Hey! Hey!” she yelled. “Help! Help!”

She couldn’t see anyone. Breanna turned to the motor. It was old, possibly dating from at least the 1960s, with part of the top removed. It had a pull rope.

She grabbed the rope and yanked at it. The engine turned itself over but didn’t start.

Breanna stared at the motor, which had been tinkered with and repaired for more than thirty odd years. The motor seemed to be intact, without any fancy electronic gizmos or cutoff switches; even the turn throttle seemed to work. She tried the rope again and this time the engine coughed twice and caught. The propeller growled angrily as Breanna got the hang of the jury-rigged replacement mechanism that set the old outboard properly in the water. The boat jumped and started to move forward; she just barely managed to turn it in time to keep the craft from sailing into the rocky shore. She realized she hadn’t released the anchor—the boat groaned, dragging the rock along. She couldn’t steer and reach the line at the same time; since she was moving forward at a decent pace she didn’t bother pulling it in, concentrating instead on getting her bearings as she sped back to rescue her husband.

ZEN PUSHED HIMSELF BACKWARD FROM THE ROCK, DUCKING down under the water and swimming to the west. He stayed below for as long as he could, the pressure in his lungs building until it became unbearable. As his face hit the air he heard a cacophony of sounds—the motorboat, guns firing, a distant jet. He gulped air and ducked back, pushing again. He didn’t last as long this time. When he surfaced the boat was nearly on top of him. He pushed down and waited, the wake angry but not as close as he feared.

When he resurfaced, the crack of a rifle sent him back underwater with only half a breath.

WHERE WAS THE INFIDEL BASTARD? SAHURAH LEANED against the side of the boat, searching for the tourist in the water. The man had gone beneath the waves somewhere around here; he couldn’t have swum too far away.

Sahurah knew that it was the cripple who was shooting at them. How exactly he knew that—and surely that was not the logical guess—he couldn’t say, but he was sure.

So the moment of pity he had felt on the beach had been a grave mistake. A lesson.

He heard one of his men firing from shore and turned toward the east. A head bobbed and disappeared in the water nearby.

“There,” shouted Sahurah, momentarily using Malaysian instead of English. “There, over there,” he yelled. “Go back. Get the dog. Run him down!”

BREANNA STRETCHED FORWARD, TRYING TO GRASP THE knotted line holding the stone while still steering the boat. She was about three inches too short; finally she leaned her leg against the handle, awkwardly steadying it, and grabbed the rope, pulling it back with her as she once more took control of the motor. The anchor turned out to be a coffee can filled with concrete; she pulled it up over the side and let it roll with a thud into the bottom of the craft.

A boat circled in the distance offshore. Breanna bent down and held on, steadying herself as she made a beeline for it.

SAHURAH BROUGHT UP HIS PISTOL TO FIRE. HIS FIRST THREE shots missed far to the right. As he shifted to get a sturdier position he felt the pain in his side again; the bullet had only creased the flesh but it flamed nonetheless.

He would have revenge. He aimed again, but as he fired, the boat jerked abruptly to the north.

“What?” demanded Sahurah, turning toward the helm.

The men pointed toward the west. A second boat was coming.

For a long moment, Sahurah hesitated. He felt his anger well inside him. Unquenchable thirst—frustration—rage.

He had failed.

“Get the others,” he said finally. “Get the ones on shore. Quickly.”

*   *   *

THIS TIME THE PRESSURE TO BREATHE WAS SO FIERCE ZEN started to cough as he broke water, his throat rebelling. His body shook with the convulsions and he found himself twisting backward in the water, unsure where he was.

He’d saved Bree, at least, he thought. They might have gotten him but his wife at least was safe.

Zen heard the boat behind him. Surprised that it was there, he pushed his tired arms to turn him in that direction. But instead he slipped beneath the waves, his energy drained.

BREANNA SAW THAT THE OTHER BOAT WAS GOING IN TO THE beach. She cut the throttle back but even at its low idle setting it still pushed the boat forward. She dared not pull the ignition wire or fiddle with the eccentric controls too much; instead, she put the boat into a circle, taking some of its momentum away before approaching the rock, about two hundred yards away.

She didn’t see Zen.

Did they have him already? Was that why there were going to shore?

“Zen! Zen!”

Something bobbed to the left, about thirty yards away.

“Jeff! Jeff!”

It was him. He-started to swim for the boat, but he was moving in slow motion, not swimming as strongly as he normally did. She maneuvered to the left and right, but couldn’t quite get close enough on the first pass and still didn’t dare to turn off the motor.

“I’ll circle around. Grab on!” she called. “This is as slow as I can go “

Breanna pushed against the throttle switch on the engine, managing to slow the speed a little more but still not entirely cut it as she came around. Zen grabbed the side of the boat, clamping his arms against it like a hobo pulling himself onto the side of a freight car.

“What are you doing?” he yelled as she pushed at the throttle, trying to get it to increase speed gently. “Let me get in for cryin’ out loud,” said Zen, pulling up against the side.

“Wait,” she told him, fighting to keep the boat balanced and moving in the right direction as the engine began churning the water faster.

“They’re going away,” Zen told her. “It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” she repeated, not quite ready to believe it.

Brunei International Airport, military section
1830

Mack Smith looked at his watch again and shook his head. Everyone in the damn country ran at least a half-hour late.

It was bad enough that his pilots were cavalier about reporting on time, but now even Breanna had caught the bug.

Mack paced in front of the A-37B Dragonfly he was supposed to fly for the night exercise. He was so short of trained pilots that he had to take the plane up himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—Mack loved to fly the old Cessna, which was similar to the T-37 “Tweet” air force pilots cut their teeth on—but the fact of the matter was, as head of the air force, he should at least have had the option of assigning someone to go in his place, just in case he wanted to party or kick back a bit. He currently had only five other pilots with suitable ratings and training to fly jet aircraft, and he was training them all to handle the Megafortress as well as his four A-37Bs. Besides getting these guys up to speed, he needed to at least triple his stable of jocks before the two other Megafortresses arrived.

Hence the importance of tonight’s session.

Stinking Breanna. Where was she?

Come to think of it, he didn’t spend
any
time partying anymore. There was just too much to do to get this tin can air force in shape. New planes, pilots, ground people—he had a few kids who could strip a jet engine with their eyes shut and get it back together, but he needed more, more, more.

“Excuse me, Minister.”

Mack turned to find one of his maintenance officers, a friendly but sad-sacked sort named Major Brown, who was descended from a nineteenth century British regent or some such thing.

“You can just call me Mack. You don’t need to use my title,” Mack told him for the hundredth time.

Brown’s attempt at a smile looked more forlorn than his frown.

“We have only a week’s worth of fuel supply left, sir. You asked me to bring it to your attention.”

“Did you put through that requisition or whatever the paperwork was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did we get it?”

“No, sir.” Brown explained that simply forwarding a form into the morass that was the Brunei defensive forces purchasing system was hardly enough to elicit a yawn, let alone needed fuel supplies. Mack had heard some variation of this lecture three times a day since taking this job nearly a month ago.

“I want you to go over there tomorrow and baby-sit the damn request,” said Mack. “We need a ninety-day supply of fuel at a bare minimum.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you have to go. No—bypass the stinking bureaucracy. Go to the central defense ministry office and tell the chief of staff I sent you.”

Brown blanched. Things in the kingdom of Brunei were done by strict protocol. A mere major, or even a general of insufficient breeding, did not talk to the chief of staff, who like most people of importance was related to the sultan.

“All right,” said Mack, recognizing the look. “What do you suggest?”

“If I go to the finance office, perhaps I can get an expeditious result.”

Two weeks ago, Mack would have asked why Brown would have to go to the finance office to get something as simple as a fuel order sent up the line. Now he knew that the explanation would not clarify anything.

“Do your best,” he told Brown. “We’re all set for the exercise, right?”

“An hour ago, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Brown,” said Mack. “Do your best on the fuel thing.”

“Perhaps if you spoke to the chief of staff yourself.”

“I intend on kicking his butt if I ever see it,” said Mack under his breath.

While Mack and Brown had been talking, two other members of Mack’s staff had approached. One was his administrative assistant, Suzanne Souzou, who had a thick wad of folders in her hand. The other was his director of operations, a Brunei of Chinese extraction named Han Chou.

“Miss Souzou first,” said Mack. He smiled at Han, who was offended by the fact that a woman was given priority. “Beauty before brains.”

“You need to sign these,” said his secretary. “The interviews are set up.”

“Which interviews?”

“The contract people to fill your temporary positions?”

“Yeah, okay. Right. Good.”

“You will need to sign these or the men won’t get paid.”

Mack flipped through the folders; it would take him more than an hour to sign them all. He’d tried telling her two weeks ago to sign for him, but that, too, was a major breach of Brunei etiquette.

“All right. I’ll leave them on your desk first thing in the morning. Good night.”

Souzou flashed a big smile before turning and heading back to the car that had brought her. Mack admired her walking style before turning to Han, who bowed stiffly and handed him an envelope.

“Uh, I don’t get it,” said Mack, taking the envelope. Han said nothing.

“This isn’t a resignation, is it?”

Han still refused to speak.

“Yo, Han, my man. My main man—you can’t leave. We’re just getting going. Come on. We’re going places, my friend. Going places.”

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.

Breanna’s SUV appeared at the far end of the road, heading toward him. Mack waited with his hands on his hips, frowning as he saw that Zen was sitting in the front seat beside her. He’d shown up unannounced yesterday, but Breanna had insisted his visit wouldn’t interfere with the training schedule.

“Captain,” he said as she rolled down the window. “We’re running a little late.”

“I’m sorry,” said Breanna. “We were detained.”

“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 Breanna explained what had happened that afternoon on the beach. It seemed farfetched. People here left their doors unlocked and keys in their cars.

“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 Breanna. “Possibly guerillas from Malaysia trying to kidnap tourists. There are Muslim extremists trying to take over the Malaysian part of the island.”

“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 Breanna.

“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 Breanna. “The State Department wants to interview me.”

“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.”

Breanna shook her head. “Sorry. We’re already late. And I haven’t had anything to eat, either.”

Mack had enough experience with Breanna to know it was useless to argue. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Fine,” said Breanna.

“Oh wait, I can’t do it tomorrow night. I have some dinner with the prince.”

“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?”