Armageddon (8 page)

Danny did his best to laugh along with them, ignoring the dagger eyes from the army people.

Boston was waiting for him in his office when he finally made it over there two hours later.

“You were looking for me, Cap?” asked the sergeant. Something about his sophomoric smile burned right through Danny.

“You blew the parameters of the test,” Danny told him. “You screwed the whole stinking thing up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those were supposed to be shrapnel grenades. Your team would have been dead.”

“No, we were far enough away. I made sure of that”

“You ran right through the smoke,” said Danny. “That wouldn’t have happened in real life. You would never have made it in time.”

Boston shrugged.

“I don’t like your attitude. Sergeant,” said Freah.

“Captain—don’t you preach that we ought to use our heads?”

“Go on. Dismissed. Go”

“But—”

“Out!”

Danny pretended not to see him shake his head.

Brunei
8 October 1997, (local) 0900

As Mack pulled himself out of the A-37B’s cockpit, the fatigue that had been trailing him the whole flight jumped out and wrapped itself around his neck. The sun beat down on the concrete apron, and the humidity hung around him like the thick steam of a shower room. Mack had originally planned to go home and take a nap after debriefing the training session, but the morning’s developments meant there would be no rest for the weary; quite the contrary. The sultan would undoubtedly be wondering what was going on and expect a personal briefing, as would Prince bin Awg. The central defense ministry—a collection of service heads and other military advisors, including Mack—would also be looking for information.

The EB-52 banked overhead, preparing to land. Mack turned back toward the runway, watching the big plane swing in. It wobbled slightly—obviously one of his people was at the stick. Still, the landing was solid. All in all, they were making progress.

Slow progress, but progress.

“ ‘Scuse me,” said a woman’s voice behind him. “You Mack Smith?”

Mack turned, surprised to hear what sounded like an American accent.

“You’re the minister of defense?” said the woman.

“Deputy minister of defense—air force,” said Mack, giving his official title. “Such as it is.”

He might not have added the last comment if the woman had been anything other than, well, plain, though plain didn’t quite cover it. She was somewhere over twenty-one and under forty, five-four, on the thin side. Her short hair had a slight curl to it, and that was the nicest thing you could say about her looks. She wore a pair of jeans and a touristy blue shirt.

“I’m McKenna,” she said, thrusting out her hand.

“McKenna is who?” said Mack.

“Pilot. You were looking for contract pilots? Does it help that I can speak Malaysian?”

She reeled off a few sentences in the native language, which was shared by Brunei and its island neighbors. Mack hadn’t been here long enough to understand more than a few words; he thought he recognized the phrase for “have a nice day,” but that was about it.

“I think you have the wrong idea,” said Mack. “I’m putting together a combat air force. The civilian airline is still on its own”

“Well no shit,” said the woman. “I’ve flown F/A-18s for the Royal Canadian Air Force, and for the last year I’ve been a contract pilot for a horse’s ass of an outfit trying to sell third-hand Russian-made crates of crap that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in. That light your f-ing fire?” said McKenna.

Well, she could talk like a pilot at least, thought Mack.

“I don’t have any F/A-18s,” he told her.

“I can fly anything,” she said. “Ask Prince bin Awg. He let me fly his MiG-19 and his Sabre last year. We went at it a bit and I waxed his butt good. I’d love to get behind the wheel of one of those,” she added, thumbing toward the Megafortress, which was just heading toward its parking spot in front of the hangar on the left.

“It doesn’t have a wheel. It’s got a stick, like a real airplane,” said Mack. “They put it in when they upgraded it.”

“Well kick ass then,” said McKenna.

Mack started toward the hangar to change, and McKenna fell in alongside him.

“So? Am I hired?” she asked.

“Hired for what?”

“For a pilot.”

“What Russian planes did you fly?”

“Anything and everything.”

“MiG-29s?” asked Mack.

“Do it in my sleep.”

“How about Su-27s?”

“One or two”

“You fly them around here?”

“Nah”

“Out of Labuan?”

“Are you kidding? The Malaysians don’t operate jets out of there”

“Ever?”

“About six months ago we tried to sell a pair of MiG-29s,” said McKenna. “We brought them to Kuching at the far south of Borneo from the peninsula to demonstrate some of the changes that extended their range. But no one was buying.”

“What about the Indonesians? You fly Sukhois out here for them?”

“For the Indonesians?” McKenna laughed. “Malaysia, Indonesia—their governments aren’t on Borneo,” said McKenna.

“You have to sell where the money is.”

“You haven’t flown Su-27s on Borneo at all?”

She shook her head.

“You hear of either country having them?”

“You’d know better than me, Minister.”

Mack stopped. “Yeah, cut the shit. They have them?”

McKenna examined his face for a moment before answering. “Indonesia doesn’t have anything newer than Northrop F-5s. The Malaysian Royal Air Force has MiG-29s and F/A-18s over in West Malaysia, near the capital of Kuala Lumpur. Most of what my boss sold was used and it’s hard to buy used when you’ve been buying new. Her dealings with the Malaysians were mostly for ammunition and some avionics spare parts.”

“I was jumped by two Su-27s this morning,” said Mack.

“Get out of town.”

Mack smiled sardonically. “They came up out of the south-west, from Malaysian territory, turned on their targeting gear to scare me, and took off.”

“They scared you?”

“Yeah, right.”

“What’d you do?”

“Gave them the finger and took their pictures,” he said. “I want to figure out who they are”

“I’ll look at it for you if you want”

Mack shrugged. It couldn’t hurt, though most likely it wouldn’t help, either.

“They could have come out of Kuching,” admitted McKenna. “But it’s a good hike to get up here, over five hundred miles. And your spies would have told you they were there, wouldn’t they have?”

“Who says I have spies there?”

“You have spies everywhere,” said McKenna. “Dragonfly, huh? You would’ve been dead meat.”

“What, from a couple of Sukhois? Give me a break,” said Mack.

“Depends on the pilot,” said McKenna, her voice only a bit conciliatory. “If it were me, I’d’ve waxed your fanny.”

“If you were in the Sukhoi?”

“Either way”

“If you fly half as good as you talk, McKenna,” said Mack, resuming his stride toward the hangar, “you got yourself a job.”

Brunei
1600

The time difference between the States and Brunei made it difficult for Breanna to get any information without invoking official channels, which she didn’t want to do. Finally she thought of Mark Stoner, a CIA agent who’d worked with Dreamland on some recent missions and who was back east in D.C. By the time she tried him, however, it was midnight there, and when she got his machine she left a message, asking him to call “when he got a chance.” Then she forgot about him until, to her great surprise, the hotel desk buzzed her room at 3 P.M. to tell her he was on the line.

“Mark—what are you doing up at 2 A.M.?” she asked.

“It’s 3 A.M. here,” said Stoner. “There’s a twelve-hour difference. No daylight savings. We’re a half-day behind you. You said you had a question.”

“Couple of questions. Unofficially.”

Breanna told him about the aircraft, which according to the images captured by the Dragonfly had no identifying marks.

“They came out of Malaysian territory?” Stoner asked when she had finished her summary.

“Looked like.” She didn’t want to be too specific, worrying that anyone listening in would be able to gather information about the targeting system’s abilities—and she had to assume that might include Malaysian spies.

“There are two Malaysian air bases, auxiliaries to civilian airports. Neither field is really set up to support military jets, at least not that I know.”

“Can you check?”

“Have you talked to the Department of Defense?”

“I filed a report, but no one seemed particularly interested. A pair of Sukhois doesn’t really rock their world.”

Stoner was silent for a moment, then he asked, “If I gave you an address, could you get to it this afternoon?”

“I think so “

“It’s in Kampung Ayer. Do you know what that is?”

“The island city in the bay off the capital?”

“Write this down.”

BREANNA FOUND MACK STANDING ON THE BACK OF A PICKUP truck at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean several miles southwest of the airport. A British-built truck sat nearby, with two Brunei air force sergeants working an old field radio in the back. Below the cliff was a narrow plateau of rocks just out of the water’s reach. Several pieces of plywood were set up as targets for an A-37B.

Breanna watched as the airplane came around from the north and made a run parallel to the coastline. The rocks bubbled and one of the plywood panels split in two. The airplane then rose abruptly, its right wingtip no more than ten feet from the cliff edge.

“I have to say, pretty good,” said Mack. “Tell her to nail the last target any way she wants,” he shouted to the men in the truck.

Not five seconds later, the Dragonfly rolled back toward land, heading dead-on for the beach—upside down. The last piece of plywood folded in half.

Not that anybody on land had seen. They’d all ducked for cover as she blew past, maybe six feet off the ground.

“New pilot?” Breanna asked.

“Yeah. I’m pretty desperate,” said Mack.

“He looks pretty good,” said Breanna. “Even if he is a showoff.”

“It’s a she,” said Mack. “And actually, her looks are, uh, not exactly on the measurable chart. But she’s a helluva pilot. Why are you here?”

“I’m doing you a favor,” said Breanna. “We need to go out to a place in Kampung Ayer.”

“We? Listen Bree, I’m due back in the capital in an hour to explain to my fellow ministers of defense how aircraft that don’t exist may very well have sunk that merchant ship. I don’t have time for a boat ride.”

“I called Mark Stoner and told him about your Sukhois. He told me to go out to see someone there.”

“Stoner’s the CIA spook who’s an expert on South Asian weapons?”

“One and the same.”

The A-37 buzzed back. Mack didn’t duck this time.

“I hate show-offs,” he said, jumping out of the truck. “Especially when they’re worth watching.”

KAMPUNG AYER WAS A WATER VILLAGE IN THE BAY OUTSIDE the capital. Buildings rose on stilts from the murky water, whose pungent odor matched its mud-red tint. Until today, Breanna had seen the lagoon city only from a distance. She stared at the people as she and Mack passed in their water taxi, amazed at how ingenious humans could be.

“There,” said the man driving the water taxi. They pulled up against a planked walkway that led to what looked like a floating trailer. Its rusting metal roof was weighted down by satellite dishes.

“You wait, right?” said Mack, pointing at him.

“I wait,” said the man.

Mack jumped up and started walking toward the house. Breanna scrambled to follow. She barely kept her balance on the bobbing boards, and had to grab Mack’s arm just as she caught up to him.

“Hey,” he said. “Watch it or we’ll fall into that sewer water.”

“Thanks, Mack.”

Mack pulled open the screen door and they walked lino what could have passed for a doctor’s waiting room. A young Malaysian sat behind the desk, paging through a magazine.

“Mark Stoner sent us,” said Breanna.

“Cheese is expecting you,” said the man, gesturing toward an open doorway to his left. “Go in”

“Cheese?” said Mack.

The only light in the room came from a large-screen TV, which was tuned to CNBC. Hunched on the floor in front of a leather couch was a man pounding a keyboard. A bottle of Beefeater gin sat next to him.

“Hello,” said Breanna.

The man put his hand out to shush them, then continued typing.

“You’re Cheese?” asked Mack.

The man picked up the Beefeater, took a swig, then held it out to them without looking away from his laptop.

“No thanks:’ said Breanna.

“I’ll pass:’ said Mack.

The man took another swig, still typing with one hand. In his thirties or early forties, he was obviously American, wearing a light blue T-shirt  and a pair of cut-off jeans.

“Stoner’s people, right?” he asked, still tapping his keys. “Yes,” said Breanna.

“I want to know about some airplanes,” said Mack.

“I don’t want to know anything. Nothing. Zero.”

“Mark told me to come here,” said Breanna.

“Yeah, but I don’t know anything about it, okay? I have a Web link for you to look at in the other room,” he said. “I typed it in already. All you have to do is hit enter.”

The man typed one more thing on his laptop, then put it down and got up.

“James Milach. They call me Cheese because I made a killing in the stock market involving Kraft. No shit,” said the American. He shook Mack’s hand—then bent over and kissed Breanna’s. “Beefeater makes me formal,” he said, sweeping away into the next room.

*   *   *

MACK THOUGHT FOR SURE HE’D STEPPED INTO AN INSANE asylum. Stoner was a spook, and spooks knew weird people, but this character was—a character.

But then this had been a particularly perplexing day all around. The sultan had expressed some concern about the Sukhois, but discounted Mack’s theory that they had been responsible for the attack on the merchant ship. The spy network, meanwhile, reported that there had been no activity at any of the airports on Borneo or even nearby Indonesia or Malaysia.