Текст книги "Armageddon"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Interesting,” the president told whomever he was speaking with. He leaned back in his chair and gave Jed a thumbs-up. He seemed somewhat tired, though as usual his voice was so calm he might have been chatting at a cocktail party.

“Well, perhaps you can explain then how one of your ships came to be firing upon an oil platform off the Brunei coast?” the president said finally to the person on the other end of the line. “Seems to have had some bad luck there.”

Jed started up the laptop presentation and then slid it over toward the president. A wry smile came over the president’s face; he looked a bit like a poker player about to reveal a hand filled with aces.

“I’m looking at an image of it in the water right now. Very interesting craft,” President Martindale said. He leaned forward to read the notes in the pop-up window on the screen. “What does this use? Surface effect technology? No—wing-in-ground effect? Wing-in-wave? Very impressive.”

The president looked at Jed. One of the CIA technology experts believed that the ship might have been built for Malaysia by China, but Jed had his own theory—the U.S. had experimented with some of the technology, and used parts built by a South Korean firm. He thought it possible that the plans were stolen somewhere along the way through industrial espionage; heads were going to roll if that was the case.

“Well, as prime minister, you’re in a position to do something about it, aren’t you?” said Martindale. He sat up straight, figuratively laying his cards on the table. “I expect to see concrete steps toward cooperation with Brunei forces within twelve hours. In the meantime, I’ve dispatched some of my own units to keep an eye on the situation. It would be very good if we could use one of your bases.”

The president listened, nodding as the Malaysian prime minister spoke. Jed slid out one of the sheets from his report, placing it so the president could see.

“Well that’s very good,” the president said finally. “I’m told you had some troubles at that secret base in the hills above Meruta where you were operating Su-27s until the other day. Rumor has it you bought those from the Ukraine—odd that the purchase wouldn’t have been announced, or shared with other members of ASEAN.”

The president smiled as he listened to the Malaysian leader’s continued excuses. After a minute or so, he interrupted.

“With all due respect, you have treaty obligations to honor. If you don’t honor them, I think you’ll find your position in the world community very, very tenuous.”

The president handed the phone to the secretary of state, who listened for a few more moments, said “Great,” and then hung up.

“They’ll cooperate,” the secretary announced. “We can use any of their facilities we want.”

“Dreamland preferred the, uh, hidden base,” said Jed. “Because it’s location is more isolated. Less chance for spies to see them coming and going. There are some security issues—we’re very short of personnel.”

“The Malaysians promised assistance,” said the secretary of state. “I think they’re sincere.”

“I doubt they’re sincere,” said President Martindale. “But I think they’ll go along with us for the time being. We’ve just given them carte blanche to attack the terrorists wherever they find them. I imagine they’ll use it to justify all manner of things. But for the moment, these terrorists are a bigger problem. Imagine what they’d do if they controlled a country like Brunei, with all its oil revenue. Jed, give Colonel Bastian the heads up. Get the Pentagon to send them more security personnel, Special Forces, whatever they need. Then you go get some sleep young man. You look as tired as I feel.”

VI

S NAKES IN THE J UNGLE

Near Labi, southwestern Brunei

13 October 1997, 2300

DANNY FREAH TIGHTENED HIS HAND ON THE SIDE OF THE seat as the Quick Bird thundered over the Brunei Jungle, heading for the last launch point for the LADS system. He’d given up his usual spot in the front of the helo to Jennifer Gleason, who had hooked one of her laptops into the blimps’ command system. Jennifer had modified some of the programming en route, allowing them to activate the sensors on the fly as each blimp was launched. Though the system was scalable (meaning units could be added without major hassle), before her alterations it had to be shut down and rebooted, a lengthy process, each time a new unit came on line.

Who said scientists weren’t useful? And this one, even in a carbon-boron vest, was damn easy on the eyes.

“Thirty seconds to touchdown, Captain,” announced the pilot. “Hawk Three says we’re clear.”

“Good:’ said Danny. He stamped his foot up and down, trying to knock away the pins and needles.

“Problem, Cap?” asked Boston, who was sitting next to him. “I’m all right.”

“Foot fell asleep, huh?” Boston laughed.

“My leg,” said Danny.

“My grandmamma had an of recipe to fix that.”

“Your grandmamma, huh?” said Sergeant Garcia. “Did it involve castor oil?”

“Mighta. She put castor oil into anything, including the stew”

Danny’s grandmother had actually done the same thing. But he wasn’t about to encourage Boston, who’d find some way to make another joke out of it.

“Here we go,” said the pilot, tipping the helicopter downward.

Danny and Garcia jumped from the helicopter just as it set down on the wide highway. They ran in opposite directions, scouting the dark terrain around them with their helmet sensors. Once they were sure the area was clear, Danny had Boston and Jennifer unstrap the small LADS vehicle kit from the side of the helicopter. The helicopter cleared out to scout the area as they began inflating the lighter-than-air vehicle.

“Cap, got something moving down off the road,” said Garcia.

Danny spun around and ran down the highway. The long day and steamy weather were starting to take their toll, and he was huffing before Garcia came into view, crouched at the side and looking down a long curve.

“Too far away to get a good view,” said Garcia, pointing along the ravine. “Two bodies, but I can’t tell if they’re people or what”

Even at maximum magnification, Danny couldn’t see anything.

“Whiplash team to Quick Bird, I want you to stay clear of the area south of us,” Danny told the helicopter pilot. “We have something moving. I’m going to get the Flighthawk to take a look.”

Aboard EB-52 Indianapolis (“Indy”), over Brunei

2312

Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews acknowledged the request from Captain Freah for a close-up of the area to the southeast of the LADS deployment team and turned his Flighthawk back in that direction.

Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby sat next to him on the Flighthawk deck of the Indy, controlling Hawk Four. Kick had just taken his plane up for a refuel, leaving Starship to handle the reconnaissance request on his own.

Not that he didn’t prefer it that way.

The U/MF-3 slid through five thousand feet, descending toward a blur of vegetation. Starship rode the plane over the right shoulder of the road for about a mile and a half, then started his turn to bank in the direction of the area Whiplash had pointed out. The sensors in the belly of the Flighthawk scoured the ground as he flew; the computer gave him two frozen frames as he pulled up.

“Hawk Three to Whiplash ground team. Captain, we got some blurs on that pass. Computer ID’d two people, but there may be more. I’m taking another run. I’ll feed you the video from the sensors,” he added, reaching with his left hand to the one-switch toggle that allowed the data to flow through the Dreamland network. “Thick canopy,” he added, meaning that the trees and vegetation would limit the sensors’ ability to see.

“Whiplash leader,” acknowledged Danny.

Starship banked Hawk Three well south of the target area and lined up again, practically walking over the area. He came around and found himself barely fifty feet higher than the rock outcropping on the opposite end of the highway. He’d been so intent on flying the airplane that he was surprised when Danny asked if he could give him another view of the troops.

“Sorry Whiplash, I lost that:’ he told the captain on the ground.

“Take another run,” said Danny. “I couldn’t tell if they were rebels or regular troops.”

Starship banked around and began another pass. As he did, he got two warnings from the computer—one because he was drifting too far from the Megafortress to control the Flighthawk properly, and the other because he was into his fuel reserves.

“I can manage one more pass,” he told Danny, “but then I have to refuel. Hawk Four is en route to take over.”

“Give me a good one then.”

Near Labi, southern Brunei

2318

“I can’t tell who they are,” Danny told Garcia after the third pass failed to show anything definitive. “We’re just going to have to wait and see if they get close.”

“Yeah,” said Garcia.

Danny ran back to Jennifer and Boston. They had not yet begun to inflate the blimp.

“We have some people moving up about a mile and a half from here, in the jungle:’ he told them. “We can’t tell if they’re good guys or bad guys. How long is it going to take to get that bag up in the air?”

“Another five minutes before we can start the inflation,” said Jennifer. “Then about ten minutes on top of that.”

Once inflated and launched, it would take the blimp at least ten minutes to climb up and out of easy range. The engine was fairly quiet, but could be heard when the craft was at ground level.

“All right,” Danny told her. “Move as quickly as you can. “Boston, you’re the last line of defense here. Garcia and I are going to go down into the jungle off the road. This way if that patrol comes up in your direction we can cut them off before they get close enough to do any damage. We’ll hold them off long enough to get the LADS vehicle launched and you guys out”

“We’re not leaving without you,” said Jennifer.

“Yeah, Captain, no way.”

“It won’t come to that,” said Danny, turning and running back to Garcia.

Aboard EB-52 Indianapolis (“Indy”), over Brunei

2320

Kick finished the refuel and ducked away from the Megafortress, gliding back to the southwest. He could see the Quick Bird that had deposited the LADS team off on his right as he descended toward the jungle to update the Whiplash people on the situation.

“Hawk Four to Whiplash leader. Looking for you,” said Kick, trying to orient himself. He banked and got the road on his right. He had two people at the top of his screen—the LADS team, getting ready to inflate the lighter-than-air vehicle.

The response from the ground was garbled and partly overrun as Major Alou gave an update on Indy’s position, flying north so it could cover one of the government’s strongholds as well as the Whiplash operation. Kick double-checked his Flighthawk’s position to confirm for Alou that he would remain in communication range. He lost his bearings again; as he banked he temporarily lost sight of the road. He came westward and realized he was completely disoriented, now nearly two miles south of the team’s position. He found the road again and flew along it, following the curve back in the direction of the LADS unit, which had just activated a radio beacon as part of its start-up.

Some figures moved through the brush a few hundred yards south of the launch point.

The soldiers threatening the team.

His heart thumped as he put the Flighthawk into a wide turn so he could position himself for a run back at the enemy. The Flighthawk cut a lollipop in the sky, its altitude dropping as he came around.

“I have two, three figures, in the jungle, near the road, very close to the team, in a threatening position,” he said. “Can’t see them too well.”

“Make sure they’re not our guys,” said Starship over the plane’s interphone circuit.

“No shit.” He clicked back into the Dreamland channel. “Ground, we got somebody just about on top of your guys.”

“Where?”

“Northwest.” Kick activated his weapons screen and pushed his nose down, running toward the road area in a diagonal from the northeast. Something moved on the left but he was going too fast to get a view, much less fire; he cursed and pulled off, trying to wing back and get another angle from the south. The geometry just wouldn’t work and he cursed himself again as he came out of the turn far too fast. He could feel his chest starting to pump with his quick, shallow breaths, and tried to force himself to breathe more slowly.

Zen had told him that the trick to flying the small aircraft in combat was to relax and keep your adrenaline level down. It was only by remaining relatively calm that you could process the information being given to you, and punch the right buttons.

“Let the computer do the frenetic stuff,” Zen had advised. “You’re like the CEO, checking off the options.”

“Northwest?” asked Danny on the ground.

“Looking at them—I have one blur. They’re in range of your people.”

He brought the Flighthawk around, putting the road on his left wing. He couldn’t see anything for a moment. Finally he got a target. His heart jumped, and his body moved reflexively to nail down the targeting pipper.

The computer didn’t let him. In the next second he realized he was looking at the Whiplash team. Fortunately, the signals from the smart helmets had registered in the computer system and the safeties wouldn’t have permitted him to fire without an override.

If I’d been piloting an A– I OA, Kick thought to himself, I might have splashed my own guys.

Shit.

“Hawk Four to ground team. All right, I have it all sorted out now. There are five, six men, uh, three hundred yards from where you are.” Even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, Kick’s hand began to tremble. “I can take them out.”

“Negative,” responded Danny. “Hold off. We’re still not sure if they’re friendly or not. Just hold your position.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, banking around.

Near Labi, southern Brunei

2330

Danny studied the blurry infrared in the left-hand side of his helmet’s visor, still trying to figure out if the people coming toward him were terrorists or government troops on patrol.

Since they were off the road, was it a reasonable assumption that they were terrorists?

“Getting closer, Captain,” said Garcia, who was crouched about ten yards to his left.

“Can you see their weapons?”

“I can’t tell.”

“How we doing back there, Boston?”

“Two more minutes. We’re doing the pre-launch countdown while we’re still inflating. This girl’s a whiz.”

“Good”

“Two hundred yards,” said Garcia. “They heard the Flighthawk that time—they stopped when it came around.”

“Hawk Four, this is Freah. Can you take a really loud pass at them?”

“Not sure what you mean, Captain.”

“I’m trying to get more time. When you cross overhead they stop. If they hear you again, we’ll get the last few seconds we need to launch the blimp.”

“Uh, I’ll give it my best. You want me to fire my cannon?”

“Negative for now.”

Danny could hear the Flighthawk come overhead. Sure enough, the patrol stopped.

“We’re launched,” said Boston. “I’m setting out the radar disrupters right now”

The disrupters were small, backpack-sized units that jammed radars in the vicinity of the blimp.

“Garcia, let’s move back up toward the road,” said Danny. “Swing up through that gully to your left.”

He waited until his sergeant had reached it before he started up himself. “We need another pass, Flighthawk.”

“Hawk Four.”

Danny moved slowly, climbing over several tree trunks as the Flighthawk took another run. His foot slid down into the muck as he got over the last tree; as he leaned back and pulled his leg out he heard a shout.

“Shit,” said someone over the Dreamland circuit.

Then the jungle lit up with gunfire.

JENNIFER TAPPED THE ARROW KEYS ON THE LAPTOP, steering the small airship to the north, away from the gunfire. She had the power set low so it would be very quiet; unfortunately, that made its speed slower than a person walking.

As the bullets continued to fly, she moved the throttle command to max. Even so, the blimp couldn’t move very quickly; it walked rather than ran away.

“Come on,” said Boston, pushing on her shoulder. “Let’s get across the road to some cover.”

“I can’t leave the unit right now,” said Jennifer.

“I’ll carry the transmitter,” said Boston. He started to reach for the antenna, which looked like a small satellite dish with a rectangular collection of tubes at the center.

“No,” she told him, grabbing him. “It’s not meant to be portable. I don’t know what’ll happen if we change the transmitting location. The blimp has to be above a thousand feet before it’ll go on auto-guide.”

“Well I know what’ll happen if we get shot,” said Boston. “We’re not going to get shot. Danny has it under control.”

“He’s not Superman,” said Boston, but he let go of the antenna and instead went and crouched between her and the area that the firing was coming from.

Aboard EB-52 Indianapolis (“Indy”), over Brunei

2335

Starship came off the refuel early and winged back toward the Whiplash team. The ground action was a mishmash, and while he had a general idea of what was going on, the two sides were so close together it was difficult to figure out exactly who was who.

“Get up to the highway and we’ll pepper the tree line,” Kick told the ground team.

Starship didn’t catch the acknowledgment—he was too busy ducking out of the way of the blimp as it rose to the north of the team. He banked back and came down just over the road, identifying the four members of the Whiplash ground unit and turning his nose just to the side of the highway as he lit his cannon. His forward air speed dropped and he had to break off; as he did there was a flash on the ground and he got a warning that a shoulder-launched SAM had been fired. He unleashed decoy flares and tightened his turn. The missile sniffed one of the flares and flew north, exploding about three-quarters of a mile away.

Near Labi, southern Brunei

2340

Danny and Garcia pulled back toward the blimp launch point as a second Flighthawk made a run at the enemy position, splashing it with cannonfire.

“Yo, get into the trees on the other side,” Danny yelled as he ran toward them.

“We’re almost ready,” replied Jennifer. “I’ll be able to transfer control to the central unit in another minute or two.”

“Put it in auto mode,” said Danny.

“I can’t until it’s at a thousand feet.”

“Just let it go”

“Sixty seconds,” protested the scientist.

“Boston,” said Danny. “Move her.”

“Urn, yes, sir, if you say so.”

The sergeant physically picked up the scientist and began dragging her off the road.

“EB-52 Indianapolis to Whiplash leader,” said Major Alou. “Danny, if you can put more distance between you and them I can launch a five-hundred-pound bomb”

“We’re working on it,” said Danny. “We’re going to go off the road to the northeast and get across that ravine there”

But as they started, gunfire raked the highway and the ridge. The guerillas were now on both sides of the road; Danny and his small band retreated along the pavement. Reinforcements were coming up from the southwest; another twenty had made it to the road about a mile and a half away and were trotting toward them. If the nearby group managed to bog them down, the Whiplashers might be overrun.

“I don’t know if we’re going to make it to that ravine,” Danny told Alou.

“Acknowledged. Hold on,” added Alou.

Danny’s helmet included a laser-dot pointer showing where his MP5 was aimed. He fired as three figures came up the road, hitting one and sending the others scurrying back.

“Danny, the Brunei air force is two minutes from your location,” said Alou. “They have napalm and want to know if they can help out.”

“Sounds like a great idea if you can get them into the right location,” Danny told him. “Maybe we can sneak the helicopter in at the same time.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

In the air, approaching Labi

2344

McKenna spotted the tail end of the little Flighthawk three hundred yards to her left as she approached the target area. The moonlight wasn’t strong enough for her to see more than a smudge, but the smudge was enough to get her on course.

“You see that?” she asked Captain Seyed, who was flying as her wingman.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. Follow him into the target. Once the flare ignites I’ll come in and give them a good thrashing.”

Lacking high-tech night-vision gear and GPS locators, McKenna had fallen back on a strategy dating to World War II. Seyed, following the Nighthawk to the area where the American unit was under fire, launched a large parachute flare called an LUU-2 just as he passed overhead. Descending by parachute, the flare illuminated the darkness, a giant candle that descended slowly because of the heat of the flame. An old method—but highly effective.

McKenna swooped downward, nose at a thirty-degree angle as she cleared the narrow roadway. She saw four or five guerillas ducking behind the tree line, pushed them into her bomb screen, and dropped two of the napalm canisters. The bombs—which were probably nearly as old as her tactics—dropped down and ignited. McKenna didn’t stop to admire her handiwork; as soon as she pulled up she spun the Dragonfly back and dumped two 250-pound bombs behind the conflagration. Her right wing sagged as she started to recover; she’d been peppered with gunfire and one or more of the bullets had damaged the ailerons, elevator, and her rudder. She had to fight a bit, arm wrestling the wind gods to get the plane level.

“Commander, you’re on fire,” said Seyed.

Shit, thought McKenna. She started to climb to the north, trying to both get away from the terrorists and to get her plane high enough to bail out if she had to.

The helicopter, meanwhile, had swooped in about a half-mile away to pick up the Whiplash ground team. As she passed by it, she saw the shadow of the mountain rising quickly in front of her. McKenna pulled the stick back and slapped the throttle against the last stop, but the Dragonfly wouldn’t put her nose up. Realizing she wasn’t going to clear, she muscled the aircraft right. The controls began to buck, the stick jerking in her hand as if an elephant were jumping up and down on the control cables. McKenna glanced at the instrument panel and saw one of the oil pressure gauges spinning, as if it had decided to unscrew itself from the panel.

“Listen, Seyed, I don’t know that I’m going to make it very far from here,” she told her wingman.

“You’re on fire!”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said as another mountain loomed ahead.

DANNY COULD SEE THE AIRCRAFT FLAMING IN THE SKY AS their helicopter took off.

“We better follow her,” he told the pilot. “See if we can pick her up”

STARSHIP WATCHED AS THE FRONT OF THE DRAGONFLY CAME apart. It didn’t look like an explosion—it was more like a sneeze and then a disintegration, with the plane separating into large chunks. He steadied the Nighthawk and waited, watching the sky nearby.

“Got a chute!” he said finally. “Got a chute. Good chute. I’ll feed you a GPS coordinate.”

FOR ALL HER EXPERIENCE, MCKENNA HAD NEVER ACTUALLY hit the silk from the pilot’s seat. She had taken a grand total of six jumps for training purposes, including two jumps at night; none compared in any way to this.

The seat pushed her out of the doomed plane with the loudest sound she had ever heard in her life, except for the time her cousin exploded a cherry bomb in her aunt’s bathroom. She flew straight into the darkness, soaring into the black night on what seemed like an unending trip. And then, just as she thought she’d reach orbit, something grabbed the top of her chest and yanked her backward, pulling her along as if from the back of a freight train.

Whoa, she thought. This might be pretty cool if it weren’t so dark and weird.

Somewhere in the back corner of her brain was a long lecture on the intricacies of a night-time ejection, instructions on the importance of checking the chute to make sure it had opened properly, tips on controlling the descent, some pointers on how to hold your body and the pros and cons of giving yourself a pep talk as you fell. But McKenna’s brain cells were so awash in the adrenaline of the moment that they didn’t have the patience to search for any of that information. She felt herself tipping forward and to the right; somehow she managed to get her body situated perpendicular to the ground just as a large shadow came up to meet her. She tried to get her legs ready to hit the ground. As she did, something smacked her from behind and she lurched to the right—she was falling into a large tree. McKenna grabbed for a branch, tumbling and twisting around as she skidded downward. When she finally stopped she was hanging upside down, suspended several feet from the ground. Her arms and face burned with the scrapes.

“Well, that was fun,” she said to herself, reaching for her knife.

THE LADS GOT A GOOD IMAGE OF THE PARACHUTE TWISTED around the top of the trees, beaming it back through the Dreamland network and down via satellite to Danny’s smart helmet. Jennifer had stalled just long enough to get the blimp operational, and while Danny felt he couldn’t condone the fact that she had exposed herself to the bullets, he was grateful for the result. He spotted a clearing a hundred or so yards from the trees, up a rocky slope.

“There’s a spot where you can put us down over there,” Danny told the pilot, pointing to the clearing.

“Terrain’s rough back to that tree,” said the pilot. “If you have to take her out with a stretcher you’re going to have a hell of a time.”

“Maybe we can take her out somewhere else,” said Danny. “If we go east a little.”

They looped around the area, looking for a better spot. There didn’t appear to be one, at least not nearby.

“Let’s see what the situation is,” said Danny. “We’ll just have to work it out on the ground”

The helicopter tipped toward the trees, the pilot weaving back toward the clearing. He eased the Quick Bird into a hover about twelve feet from the ground and Danny and Boston quick-roped down.

The slope was more severe than Danny had thought from the air, and he slipped against one of the rocks before he’d taken more than a step. He tumbled down, bouncing against a boulder.

A pair of hands grabbed him from behind and helped him to his feet.

“That little helicopter’s going to carry all three of us?” asked a woman, shouting at his face.

Danny flipped up the visor on his helmet. “You’re McKenna?”

“Brunei Air Force Air Commodore McKenna, thank you very much. You know, you look like a Star Wars space trooper in that armor. Very impressive.” She put her hands on her hips. “So, we getting out of here or what?”

Southeastern Brunei

Exact location and time unknown

By the time the truck finally stopped it had been nighttime for hours and Mack had fallen into a fitful sleep. The guards shook him awake, unlocking the chain that had kept him attached to the truck bed and prodding him out. His neck and the back of his head were sore, the muscles mangled by the awkward posture of his body.

They put a blindfold on him, and then removed the manacles from his hands. Mack, cold and stiff, lost his balance as he was led off the truck and fell against one of his captors. He felt, or thought he felt, the metal of a pistol near his side, but before he could grab for it he was yanked to his feet.

“Hey!” he said. “Don’t push. I can’t see where the hell I’m going. And my legs are all screwed up.”

A set of hands took him by the shoulders and steered him to the right. Mack’s feet kicked against some stones and he nearly tripped again. Another hand pushed him from the left side; he found himself walking over a smooth path. After twenty paces he was stopped. He heard a lock being turned and then felt something, probably a rifle barrel, prodding his legs to step upward. He made it up some steps and into a building, where he was led down a hallway. His captors left him in the middle of a room; Mack waited a few seconds before reaching for his blindfold and peeking out.

The room had a small mattress on the floor near the corner. There was a window at the left side of the room, covered with a simple curtain.

Mack slipped back to the door, sidling next to it to listen; there were people in the hallway, talking softly. He walked quietly back across the room to the window; he couldn’t see anything through it. He tried tugging at it to see if it would open; when it didn’t give way easily he gave up for the moment and sat down on the mat.

Mack rubbed at his wrists where the manacles had been, then began kneading the back of his neck, trying to work out some of the cramps. When he heard the truck drive off, he got back up and went back to the door. This time he didn’t hear anything, and so he put his hand on the doorknob and slowly twisted it open. His heart began thumping wildly. He sensed that his captors had gone off and left him. Cracking open the door, he peeked out but saw no one in the hall.

Mack pulled open the door and took a step out of the room—only to find an AK47 in his face.

A man shouted at him in Malaysian or some other language. Mack couldn’t decipher the words but the intent was pretty clear—he threw his hands out at his side.

“I have to take a leak,” he claimed. “Bathroom. Bathroom” The voice repeated whatever it had said.

“I don’t understand.”

Once again the words were repeated, this time slow enough for Mack to realize they were English.

“Step outside the room,” said the voice in his thick accent, “and you will be shot.”

“I have to pee,” insisted Mack.

“There is a can in the room for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said, finally retreating.

Aboard “Penn,” approaching Malaysian Air Base, north of Meruta

14 October 1997, 0600

Dog borrowed– “shanghaied” was probably more accurate a word—two Air Force Special Tactics Squadron members from a unit in Korea and flew them south to the Philippines to help the Dreamland team set up operations at the secret Malaysian air base near Borneo’s southern coast. The men, adept at creating airfields out of strobe lights and chewing gum, parachuted off Dreamland’s MC-17 and helped guide the Megafortress in. The airstrip was just barely long enough for the EB-52, but Dog figured the risk was worth it; it would cut nearly two hours off each way as they patrolled from the Philippines but also allowed for rapid response to any developing situation.