Текст книги "Armageddon"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Still, it was not in Dazhou’s nature to do nothing. All his life he had seen boldness rewarded.

“We will move to the east side of the platform,” he told his crew. “When we arrive, we will send a boarding party. I will lead the party myself,” he added on the spur of the moment. “There are no more than three men on the platform; they should be easy to overcome.”

Brunei International Airport

0535

“They’re blowing up the fuel trucks,” said Mack as the Flighthawk tucked left and lit its cannon on the other side of the civilian terminal. He crouched down though he was several hundred yards away.

He had to hand it to Zen—he was an efficient SOB. Anyone else would have taken two or three passes. But here the pilot had gone for the trifecta, swooshing three trucks in the space of maybe ten seconds.

“Why are they doing that?” said Sahurah next to him.

Mack shrugged, though he knew the answer—they didn’t want the EB-52 to take off, but had decided for some reason to hold off on blowing it up.

Lucky for him.

“You saved my life,” said Sahurah as the Flighthawk swooped upward. “Why?”

Good question, thought Mack.

“Why did you save me, or not try to escape?” asked Sahurah when he didn’t answer.

“Just stupid, I guess,” said Mack, watching as the Flighthawk made another pass and another fuel truck erupted in flames.

*   *   *

WHY HAD THE INFIDEL SAVED HIS LIFE? WONDERED SAHURAH.

Had God moved him to do so?

Or had the devil?

What if neither had? What if he had acted solely on his own?

Sahurah put his hand on his hip over his holster, contemplating what had happened. He had been taught that Westerners, Americans especially, were thoroughly corrupt and without virtue. He’d seen ample examples of this during his life.

And yet the actions of his prisoner, surely meant to save him, were against every expectation. It was one thing for the man to be strong and brave—these were things he expected, considering that Mack Smith had an important position. But his actions were beyond that.

“Commander!” shouted one of his men, running toward him. Four other brothers, all with AK47s, trotted behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Sahurah. “Take Mr. Smith back to the building where he was held. Treat him with the greatest respect.” He turned to Mack. “Remember, you are a prisoner.”

“Hard to forget,” replied Mack, following them toward the building.

Over western Brunei, near Sukut

0540

McKenna banked her Dragonfly low over the river, giving the tops of the nearby trees a good look at her belly. The Brunei army had fortified positions on the northern side of the bridge that led to Sukut, and had only a few scouts on the south. She couldn’t see them because of the thick jungle canopy, nor could she tell if there were rebels there.

“You have a truck moving on the road,” she told the Brunei army unit on the ground. “Pickup type truck. Rear is, uh, looks empty.”

The army sergeant on the other end of the line thanked her. Unlike yesterday, the responses were sharp and very focused.

McKenna flew over the road and then banked north, looking for any concentration of militants. The citizens of Sukut had rallied to the small army and police force there, swelling their ranks with volunteers. Reinforcements were due soon from Medit.

“This is Dreamland EB-52 Pennsylvania to unidentified aircraft operating near Sukut. Identify yourself,” crackled the radio.

“Who the hell are you calling unidentified?” snapped McKenna. “Why are you using Brunei Air Force communications frequencies?”

“Identify yourself,” responded the voice.

“Just like an American,” answered the pilot. “Dreamland EB-full-of-yourself-52, this is Brunei-Air-Force-kick-your-butt-and-spit-in-your-eye A-37B Dragonfly Dragon One. You are in sovereign Brunei territory,” she added. “State your purpose and position.”

There was a brief pause. McKenna began climbing and made sure her radar was in long-range scan. The scope was clear, though she knew the Megafortress’s stealthy characteristics meant it could be as close as ten miles away.

“Dragon One, this is Pennsylvania,” said another, older voice over the radio. “We are here to assess the situation.”

“Well, that’s damn American of you,” responded McKenna. “A day late and I’m going to guess a dollar short. What’s your location?”

“We’ve just finished eliminating the ground-to-air defenses at Brunei International Airport and disabled their fueling capacity.”

“What about our EB-52?” she asked.

“We haven’t touched it,” said the American. “It’s near your hangar at the base.”

McKenna felt a stab of pain in her ribs—she had hoped that Mack had been warned off and gone back to the Philippines. “Is the plane under the militants’ control?” added the voice.

”Unknown at this time.”

“The airport is clearly in militant control, as is the rest of the capital,” said the voice. “Do you have information to the contrary?”

Hopes, but not information, she thought to herself.

“Not at this time,” she answered. “Who are you?”

“Lt. Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. Who are you?”

“Brunei Air Commodore McKenna”

McKenna filled the Americans in on the situation as she knew it, without identifying the base she was operating from. She guessed that they were here primarily to make sure that Brunei’s Megafortress didn’t fall into the militants’ hands.

“Are you offering to help the sultan, who is the rightful and lawful ruler of this country?” she asked finally.

“We’re here to assess the situation,” answered the American.

“Well don’t take too long to choose up sides,” she told him. “Or there may be only one left.”

Off the coast of Brunei

0540

“Some sort of ship,” Liu told Danny over the communications circuit. He was standing a few feet away on the dock, using binoculars to examine the shadowy vessel. “Stealthy. Those triangular wings on the side allow it to skim over the water. Marines were talking about something like that to move troops in, but they’re a bit bigger.”

Whatever it was, it was moving, albeit very, very slowly, to the east of the platform. It remained several hundred yards away.

“Who does it belong to, Captain?” asked Boston, who was back by the ladder.

“Good question,” said Danny. “I’ll alert Dreamland Command. For the time being, Boston, Bison, you guys keep it under surveillance from the lower deck. The rest of us will continue searching the platform. Weapons locker would be particularly handy right now.”

“Gotcha, Cap,” said Bison.

Danny climbed back to the housing area, where Pretty Boy had set up the satellite communications gear. Danny’s helmet plugged in via an infrared link, and he found himself talking to Major Catsman in the command center. The vessel—or whatever it was—didn’t appear on any of the force listings or any of the intelligence briefings that she could find.

“It’s not an optical illusion,” said Danny. “I can replay the image I recorded with the helmet. It’s moving in the water. Pretty slowly, but it’s moving.”

“We’d like to see it,” said Catsman. “I’ll ask Colonel Bastian to overfly it. They’re over the southern portion of the country right now.”

Before Danny could reply, Boston broke in over the team circuit.

“Captain, there’s a boat coming out of the back of it. Looks like there’s a boarding party”

“Be right there,” said Danny.

Aboard “Penn,” over Brunei

0550

“I see where she’s heading,” said Lieutenant Hawkins, working one of the radar boards on the Dreamland EB-52. “Small strip, tiny—surprised she can get out of there.”

The lieutenant forwarded a map image with the strip marked out on it to Dog’s station. Dog zoomed out, getting a better idea of the location, and then brought up a satellite image from the library. The base was indeed tiny, but it was also near the coast and protected by rough terrain from neighboring Malaysia.

“Zen, let’s get an overflight of that area:’ Dog said. “Get an idea of what they’ve got there and whether their defenses can withstand an attack.”

“Sure she won’t try shooting me down?” said Zen.

“She may just take you on,” Dog told him. The pilot—McKenna—reminded him a bit of his own daughter. “But if you don’t think you can outfly an A-37B …”

“I can handle a Tweet, thanks,” snapped Zen, using the somewhat derogatory slang term for the aircraft’s trainer version, the T-37.

If the base seemed secure, Dog thought he might be able to air-drop supplies in. That would be exceeding his orders—but it was the right thing to do, as long as he could find a way to do it.

“Dreamland Command to Penn,” crackled the radio. “Colonel, Danny’s reporting an unidentified vessel in the water near his position.”

“On our way,” said Dog, immediately changing his plans.

Off the coast of Brunei

0551

It didn’t take more than a few seconds to see that the boat was definitely headed for the platform. Danny came down to the lower deck, watching as the rubber boat came toward them. There were four men, paddling steadily. The team looked extremely disciplined—so much so that they reminded Danny of the SEAL team he had spent an exhilarating and exhausting week training with a year before.

“Dreamland, are you sure these aren’t our forces?” Danny asked, punching the back of his helmet to connect via the satellite. “These guys remind me of SEALs.”

“Not to our knowledge.”

“Cap, what do you think of going down to the dock? They can’t see the ladder from where they are.”

“Hold off, Boston” The last thing he wanted to do was kill four of his countrymen. “Dreamland—have we checked with the navy?”

“That’s negative, but to our knowledge, they’re not navy” He was authorized to protect himself. If these guys were SEALs, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That wasn’t going to be good enough if he was wrong, though.

“Liu, you got that high-powered telescope trained on these guys?”

“Still working on it, Captain.”

The vessel they had come from was definitely not American; it didn’t appear on any listing of U.S. forces that Danny knew of or that Dreamland could access. Then again, most of Dreamland’s equipment didn’t either. Whiplash itself was to be found nowhere, except as an insignificant security detail attached to a nonexistent unit at Edwards Air Force Base.

The boat was fifty yards away.

“Captain?” asked Boston.

“They have MP5Ns,” said Liu.

The same type of submachine gun SEALs used.

“Russian RPG in the bottom of the boat.”

“Fire!” said Danny.

SOMEHOW DAZHOU TI SENSED THAT THEY WERE UNDER FIRE before he heard or saw the gunfire. He immediately reached to the motor of the boat—they’d kept it off so they could make a silent approach—and started the engine. The four-stroke pancake motor, adapted from a motorcycle design, was located completely underwater, except for the air intake and exhaust. It coughed then caught with a roar, lifting the prow of the rubber assault boat forward in a rush. As it did, one of Dazhou’s men fell back against him; the captain pushed him back upright but the man slumped to the left, his face and arm riddled with bullets.

“There,” shouted one of the others, pointing. The guns began popping, the loud staccato competing with the roar of the engine. A stream of lead ripped against the wall of the boat, puncturing some of the cells but not enough to threaten its buoyancy. Another of Dazhou’s men leaned to the side, then fell into the water; Dazhou kept his sight fastened on the dock area ahead.

He’d thought there were no more than three people here, but obviously there were.

Something roared behind him, and part of the platform crumpled and fell into the water—the Barracuda began to fire its cannon.

THE FIRST SHELL LANDED ON THE DECK BELOW THEM, rumbling through the metal framework with a groaning screech. The cannon flashed several times again, apparently without hitting the platform.

Meanwhile, the boat was continuing toward them. Danny emptied his magazine, then slapped in a fresh box.

“Liu, put a grenade on it if it gets close enough,” he told the sergeant as he ran in the direction of the ladder down to the dock. As he reached it, the enemy ship’s gun found its target once more and the platform rocked with three blows from the cannon. Danny fell near the railing; he looked over and saw Boston down below emptying his M4, a shortened version of the M16.

“What the hell are you doing down there? Get up, get up,” yelled Danny. Machine-gun fire peppered the dock near his man, and at least two slugs bounced off Boston’s carbon-boron vest. Danny couldn’t find the boat for a second; finally he saw it at the far end of the dock area. He fired his MP5 submachine gun, the bullets rattling out from the weapon, his whole body shaking. Someone in the boat began to fire back and Danny pushed back, out of the line of fire, and reloaded.

“Boston where the hell are you?”

He, didn’t answer. Danny pushed back to the edge of the deck area as the platform rocked violently with fresh salvos from the enemy ship. He thought he could get a grenade into the boat but didn’t want to with Boston exposed somewhere below.

“Boston, where the hell are you?” he said again, firing a short burst in the direction of the boat.

Aboard “Penn,” heading toward the Brunei coast

0553

Zen saw the flashes in the right side of his screen even though the radar was having the devil of a time picking up the low-lying ship near the oil platform. He changed the input to only optical and saw what looked like a Civil War-era Confederate ironclad with stubby, sharply angled wings on either side. A cannon was firing at the oil platform from what looked like an open porch at the top of the hull.

Zen pushed left, moving to get the Flighthawk’s nose on the cannon. The pipper blinked red then went solid; he waited a half second and then started to fire. His stream of bullets punctured the side of the ship immediately behind the cannon. He pushed his stick left, trying to run the slugs into it.

And then the targeting screen abruptly disappeared. He was out of ammunition.

Off the coast of Brunei

0554

The ladder down to the dock extended from an open hatchway on the lower deck. It was completely exposed to fire from the water. Further down at the end of the deck a pair of close-set girders dropped to the edge of the platform; Danny thought he could climb down them and be protected from gunfire by their bulk.

He half-crawled, half-ran to the railing there, moving his large frame gingerly into the open space. His right hand started to slip as he swung around; his left boot missed the strut that ran between the two pier pieces. Danny clamped the hand to the metal, trying to somehow rub it dry without actually losing his grip. For a moment he dangled freely against the side, his weight supported by only one hand. A thick bolt extended from the girder in front of him; he was able to grab it with his left hand, the submachine gun falling and hanging by its targeting wire to his smart helmet. He managed to get a foothold as a fresh salvo of cannonfire rocked the platform. The vibrations tingled in his hands and knees, but his grip was tight. Danny managed to work his way down, slapping his knee hard against the steel. He climbed toward the waves, able to peek through the space but not seeing much of anything.

“Boston!” he yelled as he neared the platform.

He heard a squelch or something over the circuit, but no answer. Danny pulled his gun to his right hand, then swung around to the dock. The boat had pushed against the far side; he could see people in front of it.

“Boston?” he yelled, but still there was no answer.

VANITY HAD BROUGHT DAZHOU TI TO THIS POINT, AND VANITY now kept him from retreating. One of his men was dead, another overboard.

“Captain?” shouted his other crewman.

Dazhou didn’t answer. He knew he had made a grave mistake. They’d made it to the docking area, but there was no sense now going aboard; the Barracuda was pummeling it with shells.

And yet he wouldn’t throw the vessel into reverse.

Something moved in the water to the left of the dock and platform area. As he raised his gun to fire, a fresh round of bullets rained down from above. Dazhou turned his rifle upward abruptly and raked the spot; he continued to press the trigger even as the magazine was exhausted.

“All right,” he said in a whisper to himself. He reached for the motor, reengaging it. “All right”

Aboard “Penn,” heading toward the Brunei coast

0557

Dog came out over the water just as Zen announced that he had run out of ammo for his cannon.

“Bring up one of the AMRAAM-pluses,” Dog told McNamara.

“Uh, Colonel? An AMRAAM against a ship?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no, sir, if I can get the computer to allow it.”

“Use the manual setting if you have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

McNamara busied himself with the targeting screen. Though they were less than fifteen miles from the vessel, the radar had difficulty locating it, let alone getting a lock. Dog could see the vessel in the enhanced video screen. The gun had stopped firing, and smoke seeped from the opposite side.

“Got a lock:’ said McNamara finally.

“Fire.”

Off the coast of Brunei

0558

Dazhou had just pulled the small boat around to retreat when the missile or bomb struck the side of the ship. It plowed right through without igniting. Dazhou stared in disbelief, the sun glinting into his eyes.

It couldn’t have happened, he thought. He couldn’t have seen it.

And then the Barracuda’s stern slid down to the port side, bobbed upward, and then down, disappearing. The nose of his ship—his great, wonderful ship—rose from the water like the mouth of a shark getting ready to clamp on its prey. It stayed upright for a moment, locked in his stare, then slowly slipped away.

“No!” he shouted. Dazhou took his fist and began pounding the side of his head viciously. His mistakes had killed his men—his mistakes had killed his ship.

“No!” he shouted. “No!”

DANNY COULDN’T SEE BOSTON ANYWHERE. HE CROUCHED at the side, unsure exactly what was going on.

The boat that had tried to land at the oil platform was gone. The enemy ship had stopped firing.

A Flighthawk buzzed overhead, spinning around the derrick at the top of the platform like a midget racer completing a test lap. Danny went to the edge of the dock just in time to see the enemy ship put its bow up into the air and slide down to a watery grave.

But where the hell was Boston? Had he been taken prisoner by the men in the boat?

Something moved in the water to his right. Danny spun quickly, pointing his submachine gun.

A boat.

Danny aimed but stopped himself from firing only at the last second.

It was Boston, in a small aluminum skiff.

Danny pulled off his helmet and yelled at him. “Boston, why the hell didn’t you answer me?”

“I been answering you!” the sergeant shouted back. “I told you I found the boat and was trying to fire at the rubber raft. Everybody’s been trying to tell you. Your radio’s out or something.”

Danny nearly threw the offending helmet into the water. He turned and went back up the dock, looking in the direction of the ship that had been sunk. Another ship had appeared in the distance.

“I found this boat and thought I could flank ‘em,” said Boston, coming up on the dock. “It’s a little aluminum thing. We used to use them for fishing on the lake.”

“Yeah,” said Danny. “All right. There’s another ship coming. Let’s get upstairs.”

Aboard “Penn,” heading toward the Brunei coast

0615

“They claim they’re a Malaysian salvage tug,” McNamara told Dog after he was able to raise the approaching ship on the maritime radio bands. “Damn nervous, too. They say they’re civilians, answering an emergency call from a Malaysian naval vessel.”

“Tell them they can recover the people in that small boat, but if they go within five hundred yards of that platform, we’ll sink them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How you looking, Zen?”

“Could use a refuel.”

“Now’s as good time as any,” said Dog. He started to climb, laying out a track where he could have the computer fly the Megafortress while the Flighthawk took fuel through the special boom below her tail. “Meet you at eighteen thousand feet.”

“Hawk leader.”

Dog checked in with Danny on the platform. His men had been bruised a bit, but none of the enemy’s bullets had penetrated their carbon-boron vests or helmets, and the cannon had done little damage to the platform. That tracked with U.S. navy experience during the Iran tanker war and the Gulf War, when some of the better-built platforms sustained hundreds and even thousands of rounds before being destroyed. Partly it was a function of the design of the platforms and their superstructure, and partly it was a function of the size of the bullets being fired—twenty or twenty-five millimeters just didn’t measure up to the mammoth shells Penn’s namesake had once dished out.

Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command frequency. “Dreamland, this is Colonel Bastian. Ask Major Alou if he can push up his schedule in Indy; we’re out of ammo. Then see if you can locate Jed Barclay and get him in touch with me. I have some information he’s going to find very important, diplomatic type information.”

“Right away, Colonel,” said Major Catsman.

Brunei International Airport

0800

They gave Mack a breakfast of some sort of fruit and then left him alone in a basement room of the terminal. He spent the time stewing, berating himself for saving Sahurah rather than sending the idiot to the fuel trucks where he could have had the fiery death a terrorist deserved.

The concrete had scraped the palms of his hands and little specks of blood dotted the flesh; he had cut up the side of his face as well and could feel it swelling. Tired, he lay down on the floor next to the wall—there were no chairs or other furniture in the room—staring at the ceiling but not sleeping. He was still there when the door opened and two men came in.

“Mr. Mack Smith, you are to come with us,” said one of the men. He held a Beretta in his hand; Mack noticed that the gun shook slightly.

“Okay,” said Mack. He pulled himself up slowly. The other man stood back by the door with some sort of rifle; the gun had a folding metal stock and looked as if it had been cut down. Though both were in their thirties, the men were clearly nervous, and Mack moved as deliberately as possible, aware that their fear was probably twice as dangerous as their weapons. The light in the hallway hurt his eyes; he held his hand over his head as he walked to the stairway. The two men stayed behind him, and Mack thought of making a break for it when he reached the top. But there were other guards there, younger but just as jumpy, their bodies visually twitching as he approached.

The Brunei airport would never make a ranking of the busiest airports in the world or even Asia, but it looked positively forlorn now, an empty plain of concrete and roadways. Only two vehicles were in the parking lots as Mack was led from the building. One was a burned out Toyota that sat in a black heap near the main entrance to the terminal. The other was a white pickup truck, also a Toyota, idling near the access road a few hundred yards away. The men led Mack to it, then made him get up into the back.

This’ll be easy, he thought, envisioning jumping off the side. But then two other men approached with chains and manacles. They locked his hands and then chained his leg to the back of the truck with several sets of combination locks. Mack settled against the side, sweating in the sun until the truck set out.

Zamboanga International Airport (Andrews Air Base), Philippines

0805

Breanna stepped out of the Beechjet, finally deposited on Philippine territory after what seemed like a marathon of short-hop plane rides. Dreamland had set up shop on a small corner of the airport, and the U.S. air force jet—actually a multi-jet trainer borrowed temporarily as a taxi—had deposited her about fifty yards from their hangar area; she could see the tips of a Megafortress V-shaped tail sitting over the building to her right. She passed through the double line of security—Filipino and regular U.S. air force, but no Whiplashers—and walked around to the back of the building, where the Dreamland Command trailer had been set up as a temporary headquarters on the tarmac. Inside, she found Major Alou getting ready for his mission to relieve the flight currently patrolling over Brunei.

“Just in time,” Alou said as Breanna walked in the door. “I can use a copilot. Russ’s stomach is acting up. He’s in the bathroom stinking it up.”

Breanna bristled at being made copilot—she had trained Alou on the Megafortress—but protocol and manners called for her to smile. Besides, she was eager to get into the action—whatever it was. “Sure,” she told him.

Alou recapped the situation—Jersey had been located at the airport; it was out in the open and an easy target. But at the moment it wasn’t fueled and didn’t seem likely to be used. Their orders directed them to preserve it for the sultan unless the terrorists made an overt attempt to use it as a weapon. They would patrol over the island and destroy it if any attempt was made.

Danny Freah and his Whiplash team had taken up a post on a platform offshore, which they intended to use as a base while deploying the LADS system. They had just fended off an attack by a high-tech Malaysian boat with the help of the other Megafortress. Their Quick Birds were being outfitted for. a return flight; the MC-17 had left a short while ago with supplies that would be parachuted nearby, allowing them to shore up the platform so the choppers could land there. The team had found a small boat which they would use to recover their Zodiacs; once the boats were inflated and operational, the rest of the material could be easily plucked from its floating containers. Indy’s job would be merely to watch and make sure no one came back for another go at them.

“Kick and Starship have the Flighthawks,” Alou added. “We may be able to share some of the video input with the Brunei army.

He pointed to a large map of Borneo that showed the areas of Brunei where the guerillas had taken over. Strongholds of loyalist troops were shaded in blue in the south of the country.

“The sultan has joined up with the army and is organizing a counter-offensive,” added Alou. “We’re not exactly sure what form it will take, but it looks as if they’re moving north”

“Are we authorized to help them?” asked Breanna.

“Not at this time. Our only mission is to make sure the Mega-fortress is not used by the rebels. We blow it up if it takes off. And we can protect our own people on the platform.”

The sound of a C-17 rumbling nearby shook the small trailer.

“That’ll be more of our technical people,” said Alou. “I’m going to have to see them; we want one of the engineers to go over in the helicopters and inspect the landing area before they set down.”

“What’s he going to do, jump?” asked Starship.

“He may if he doesn’t know how to rappel,” said Alou.

THE HEAT AND HUMIDITY ALMOST KNOCKED JENNIFER Gleason down as she walked off the ramp of the big C-17, carrying a briefcase with two laptops and a backpack with extra clothes. The airplane had left from Dreamland several hours ahead of schedule, partly because the situation seemed more dire as news of the guerilla attacks came in, and partly because the Dreamland people couldn’t see the point in hanging around twiddling their thumbs once they were ready to go. Jennifer had spent the flight brushing up on the LADS technology, learning about the lighter-than-air vessels. While she knew a bit about the computer systems already, she wasn’t familiar with their operating procedures. The skins of the aircraft were made of a high-tech fabric containing LED matrices and what might be called a flexible plastic lens; the system made the airships almost invisible from a distance. The engines were also extremely efficient, thanks largely to recent inventions. But the rest of the airship design was hardly revolutionary, and materials aside, the small bag of air and its semirigid interior spine could have been designed fifty years before. Its simplicity was among its assets.

The blimps were controlled by a central ground station, which communicated with them via satellite. At present, the design allowed only one “live” receiver, which meant that the images from the system had to be uploaded back to Dreamland through a slightly kludgy arrangement that used Dreamland’s regular com channels. Turning over control of the blimps to another remote station, or to Dreamland for that matter, was a similarly laborious affair; the system had been designed with the idea that it would have its own dedicated command and control network for security purposes, and the present arrangement was actually a hack around those safeguards.

Jennifer spotted Major Alou near the C-17, talking with the loadmasters.

“Have we deployed LADS yet?” she asked after he said hello.

“Whiplash is in the process of launching two of the airships from the platform to cover the city. The helicopters will be bringing additional units with them as soon as they leave.” He glanced at his watch. “Which ought to be any second now”

“Great. Where are the helicopters?”

“Over beyond the second building on the right. Why?”

“Because I have to oversee the LADS technical operation.”

“You mean you want to go out to the platform?”

“How else would I do it?”

“And stay there?”

“How else would I do it?”

Alou gave the men a look and then motioned with his head toward the side. Jennifer followed him.

“You can’t stay out on the platform,” said Alou.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s dangerous. They’ve already been attacked.”

“Do we have other people there?”

“Well, the Whiplash team.”

“If they deployed LADS from there, that’s where I have to be.”

“No.”

Jennifer put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, Major. But I have a job to do. And you can’t tell me not to do it.”

“I’m in charge of the deployment.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. Jennifer felt her cheeks starting to burn.

“I mean—listen.”

“I’ve been on deployments before,” she said, turning and heading for the helicopters.

Washington, D.C.

12 October 1997, (local) 2100

Jed took the information Colonel Bastian had given him, double-checking what he could against the last CIA briefing and compiling it into a briefing paper and a PowerPoint slide presentation. His boss, Philip Freeman, had told him to bring it down to the White House situation room as soon as possible; Jed pulled the paper copies of the briefing page by page from the printer, barely making sure they were in order before starting for the secure area on a dead run. When he burst into the conference room a few minutes later, President Kevin Martindale was on the phone; Freeman motioned for Jed to come forward and give him the paper version of the briefing. Jed slid it over, and Freeman spun it around and separated the pages, showing one copy to the president and the other to the secretary of state, whose gray face turned even darker.