Текст книги "Armageddon"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Good shot,” said Zen finally, back in full control of the plane. “How’s your fuel?” Breanna asked.

“Have to tank inside twenty minutes. How’s yours?”

“We’re fine for four or five hours. Let’s escort the helicopter back, then set up a refuel. We may have to head back to the Philippines or to one of the Malaysian airports,” she added. “I don’t know that they’re going to be able to move Indy off the end of the runway any time soon.”

“Roger that,” said Zen, sliding over the Quick Bird.

*   *   *

DANNY PULLED COLONEL BASTIAN INTO THE HELICOPTER and held him as they rushed to get away. He pressed his weight down against Dog’s back as the chopper whipped over the nearby tree tops.

“We’re all right,” said the pilot as the airstrip appeared ahead, but Danny didn’t stop leaning against Dog until the helicopter’s engine had been cut, a few minutes later.

“You look like hell, Colonel,” he told him as he helped the colonel out onto the concrete.

“I feel better than I look, I think,” he said. “You okay, Tommy?”

The SF soldier started to grin—then leaned over and threw up. “My stomach feels like his,” said Dog, taking a step away. “What happened here?”

“Base was hit by a mortar attack,” said Danny. “That’s all I know. What happened to you?”

Dog recounted how they had been ambushed, and what had happened to the driver. By the time he finished, the Special Forces soldier who had stayed behind had found them. He filled them in on the casualties, which included Major Alou and Kick.

“Why the hell did they try to take off when they were under fire?” said Dog. The cuts on his face had turned deep red. “Danny? What the hell did they do that for?”

“I don’t know, Colonel,” said Danny. “Maybe they were trying to save the planes.”

“God damn it. God damn it.”

“It’s lucky for you they did,” said Danny finally.

“Losing two of my people is not lucky for me,” said the colonel angrily, stalking toward the hangar bunkers.

Southwestern Brunei, near the Malaysian border

1420

Prince bin Awg waved his hand over the map as he finished his summary of the situation. All over the country, people had shaken off their initial shock and were fighting back against the madmen; there were uprisings throughout the areas held by the terrorists.

That was the good news. Here was the bad: the terrorists were slaughtering many innocents, indiscriminately killing women and children as well as legitimate combatants.

“It is a grave, grave sin and evil,” the prince told McKenna and the local commanders, whom he had gathered for a briefing. “To spare our people, the army must launch its attack against the capital as soon as possible. The sultan has ordered it.”

The army was already on the move. Two separate columns of armored cars, augmented by pickup trucks and a few private vehicles, were now within ten and fifteen miles of the capital, approaching from different roads. They were being helped by intelligence flowing in from Dreamland’s LADS system, which was fed directly through a video hookup at the sultan’s headquarters.

“Troops should reach Bandar Seri Begawan by nightfall,” said Prince bin Awg.

“By nightfall?” asked McKenna.

“The people are rising everywhere. We cannot move quickly enough.”

“Well, fuel my plane and let’s get going,” said McKenna. “We’ll fly out in support of the column, bomb whatever we see, come back, refuel, and bomb some more.”

She punched her wingman’s arm. “You too, Seyed,” she told him.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Captain Seyed.

McKenna turned to the techie who’d come in with the prince to maintain the planes. “Can we put the bullets from the Dragonfly into the MiG?”

He shook his head. The bullets were the wrong caliber and there was no way to adapt them or the gun so they could be used. “Can we put bombs on, at least?” she asked.

“Bombs, sure. You have four hardpoints.”

“Do it.”

“The MiG is not much of a bomber,” said the prince. The sight on his MiG was an afterthought, added by the Poles after the aircraft had become too antiquated even for them to use as an interceptor. Bin Awg had purchased the plane through an intermediary when the Poles surplused it after years of storage; it was likely the plane had never dropped more than a dozen bombs, and those had all undoubtedly been dummies.

“Not much of a bomber’s better than no bomber at all,” said McKenna. “Let’s load her up.”

Southeastern Brunei

Exact location and time unknown

Mack felt his leg starting to go to sleep. He rose, shook it, and then walked back and forth. The man with the pistol paid no attention to him.

What would happen if he just walked away?

He had started toward the door when the man who had brought him here came in, followed by two others whom Mack had not seen before. The men started talking to the man with the pistol excitedly; they seemed to be arguing.

“Say, uh, you mind if I ask some questions?” said Mack finally.

One of the men gave him a disdainful look, then signaled for the others to go outside.

“Don’t leave on my account,” said Mack, watching them go. He sat back down.

“They’re arguing about what to do,” said one of the women near them.

“You speak English?”

One of the other women reached to stop her but she pushed away, defiant. “They said they would kill us and our children if we spoke. They’ve taken the men who were here. They arrived two days ago. They wore white uniforms until today. Now they seem scared.”

“Where did they take the men?” asked Mack.

The woman said nothing, instead looking toward the door.

The two men Mack had seen before came in. They walked to the nearest woman, yanking her up so ferociously her baby slipped from her hands. They pushed her, not letting her bring the child.

“What the hell?” said Mack as they left. “What the hell?” The answer came a few seconds later, with the muffled crack of a pistol fired into a skull at very close range.

Off the coast of Brunei

1720

Jennifer watched the display as LADS Vehicle One tracked the two ships approaching from the north. Both were Malaysian navy vessels, according to their markings and flags. The first appeared to be a Spica-M class attack craft; the computer ID was tentative but Malaysia had several, and it was of roughly the right size.

The second ship, larger and better armed than the first, was clearly the Kalsamana, an Italian-built corvette obtained only a month ago with her sister ship, the Laksamana. The Kalsamana packed Aspide anti-aircraft missiles and Otomat anti-ship missiles, along with a sixty-two-millimeter cannon and a twin forty-millimeter gun.

“Sergeant Garcia, what do you make of this?” Jennifer asked, calling Garcia over to the control station. “These are Malaysian navy ships.”

“Maybe they’re looking for those bastards we took care of the other night,” said Garcia. “They claimed they were rebels who had stolen the ship.”

“Maybe we should send the helicopter up, just to get it off the platform so we don’t call attention to ourselves,” said Jennifer.

“Let me get Sergeant Liu,” said Bison.

Liu and the helicopter pilot came down and took a look at the screen, staring at it as Jennifer explained how she had tracked the two ships.

“The Malaysians are our allies,” said Liu.

“I know,” said Jennifer. “But I don’t trust them at all. I think we should launch the helicopter and lay low.”

“Agreed,” said Liu.

The pilot nodded. “I’ll loop away, then come in from the north, ask them what’s going on.”

“Have you received an update from the base in Malaysia?” asked Liu.

“Colonel Bastian was recovered,” said Jennifer.

Liu nodded. They already knew that Merce Alou and Kick had been killed. The helo kicked up above, and the building shook as it took off.

“Ships are probably nothing,” said Liu.

“Probably,” said Jennifer.

“I’m going back to my lookout post. We’ll take turns eating at 1800”

“Sounds good to me,” said Garcia.

Just as Liu walked out, the LADS system emitted a loud beep. Jennifer looked down at the screen, where a warning flashed:

LAUNCH DETECTED.

“They’ve fired a missile at us!” she yelled, jumping up from her chair.

VII

“ H ANG O N”

Brunei International Airport

1720

THE LARGE RUSSIAN AIRCRAFT LOOKED LIKE AN ANGEL astride the ramp, its wings giant arms that extended over the turf and dirt. Its silver skin gleamed in the low sun, and as he stared at it Sahurah felt himself drawn to the craft, as if beckoned by Allah himself. The throb in his head vanished; the cacophony of the others around him, his assistants and lieutenants with their reports and demands and updates—all faded as he looked at the plane. Truly, God had sent it. Two brothers who were mechanics had come forward from the city to volunteer their knowledge of the aircraft. They had found the fuel tanks nearly filled—the hand of the Lord, obviously. It was the only explanation.

Yayasan and the other pilot would fly the plane. The second man had experience with large jets, including the 737 sitting on the civilian side of the airport. That experience, Yayasan said, would serve him well with the large Russian plane, whose multiple engines and big body made it complicated to fly.

It seemed to Sahurah as he stared at the plane that he could fly it himself. God had sent it for him—to carry him to heaven.

“Commander, the Badger is ready,” said the pilot. “Do we have your permission to take off?”

“I am going with you,” Sahurah told him.

“To survey the city?”

“I am going with you”

“Yes, of course, Commander. Come and let us fly while we have plenty of light.”

Off the coast of Brunei

1722

Jennifer grabbed her laptop as she ran from the small room, following Garcia and trailed by Liu. As they reached the door, the system beeped with another warning—a second missile had been launched at the platform.

The Otomat ship-to-ship missiles fired at the platform carried a 210 kilogram warhead, just under five hundred pounds. Developed by the French and Italians, the missile traveled close to the speed of sound; that gave them roughly two minutes to get off the platform and as far away as possible.

Jennifer turned to climb up to the roof.

“No,” yelled Liu. “He’s going to take on the ships. Come on. We’ll use the boats. This way”

The sergeant pulled her down to the lower deck, and then prodded her toward the ladder. Garcia had reached it already, and with Bison had revved the motor on one of their two Zodiacs. Jennifer jumped into the other, scrambling toward the engine; Liu unlashed it and pushed it away from the dock so fiercely that he fell into the water as the boat bobbed off. By the time he got back aboard Jennifer had the motor working; she revved it and went forward so fast she nearly struck the small dock, veering off at the last second.

“Down, down!” yelled Liu at her as they flew across the waves. Jennifer started to duck but couldn’t see to steer; afraid of running into something she put her head up, steadying herself with one hand against the boat’s neoprene gunwale.

The missiles skimmed over the water on their final approach on the platform. The first soared almost directly over her head. Jennifer spun around in time to see the missile pass between the platform’s piers without hitting anything. The sky burst gray and white behind the steel gridwork; a moment later the sound cracked and the small boat seemed to lift forward with it. Just then Jennifer saw the second missile strike the upper deck, spewing black shards and circles into the air as it exploded. The sound this time pushed her down sideways, all the way to the bottom of the boat.

When Jennifer finally looked back, she saw the deck area on the northern side was blackened and battered. The superstructure leaned sharply to that side. She steered around in a circle, taking the boat toward the other Zodiac, where Bison and Garcia were scanning the horizon with a set of binoculars.

“There’s one of the ships on the horizon,” said Bison, pointing toward it. “The smaller one.”

“Our best bet is to get as far down the south coast as possible,” said Liu.

“I should have taken the LADS control unit with me,” said Jennifer. “I didn’t switch control over to Dreamland either.”

“There wasn’t time,” said Liu.

She looked back at the building. “It has to be destroyed.”

“Not worth the risk,” said Liu.

“If we don’t switch it over, Dreamland can’t take control,” said Jennifer. “The sultan’s army will stop getting information once the units are destroyed.”

“You can’t rig something up with your laptop there?” asked Bison.

“No, not without the hookup unit and the satellite antennas. I should have turned it over to Dreamland.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Liu.

“I can climb up there. It’s easy.”

“It’s not a question of difficulty,” said Liu. “It’s a question of safety.”

“We have to destroy that unit,” she told him.

“We could get some of our weapons, too,” said Bison. “All we have right now are pistols.”

“Ships are a good distance off,” said Garcia. “I think they know they hit it. Helicopter’ll keep them busy for a while.”

Liu nodded, then looked back to Jennifer.

“If the ships come close, or if the platform is too dangerous, we can leave,” she told him. “But we have to try.”

“All right. Let’s take a quick look,” said Liu, frowning as he turned the boat toward the shattered platform.

Southwestern Brunei, near the Malaysian border

1729

McKenna checked her instruments as the MiG-19 climbed. Not quite used to the old-style panel, she found herself staring at each of the round dial faces, making sure the information on rpms and pressures and the like registered in her brain. Four 250-pound bombs were strapped to the plane’s hardpoints, but the MiG seemed barely to know they were there, speeding through the air without a complaint.

“Brunei MiG to Brunei Army One,” McKenna said, trying to contact the ground controller in the column heading toward the capital. “How are you reading me?”

There was no answer. She tried again a few minutes later with the same result, and then twice more before getting a response.

“Brunei Army One reads you, MiG. What a glorious day to liberate our country.”

“Kick ass,” she replied.

The controller, an army major who had taken a course in working with aircraft from the U.S. air force, gave her a good brief on their present situation, then asked for intelligence on the capital.

“Give you a verbal snapshot in zero-five,” she said, double-checking her position on the paper map. “Hang on.”

Southeastern Brunei

Exact location and time unknown

As soon as Mack heard the pistol shot, he went to the side of the doorway, flattening himself against the wall. The woman who had spoken to him earlier handed off her child to another mother, then got up and went to the other side, reaching it just as the two men came in.

Mack hesitated for half a second—the smaller one was closer to him, but there was no way to change positions with the woman. He threw himself forward into the man and they crashed down to the floor, the terrorist’s pistol flying across the room. Mack’s fury erupted and he pummeled the man’s head with an insane, obscene rage, pounding the flesh with a ferocious force that rose not from him but from the earth itself. Mack’s bare fists crushed the bones of the man’s jaw and nose and even the side of his skull. Blood gushed as he leapt out toward the pistol, grabbing it and rolling backward in the same motion, crashing against the wall and firing into the two forms that appeared in the doorway with their rifles. He kept firing until he emptied the gun; it took that long for both men to totter backward.

Mack scrambled to get up. He reached his feet in time to see the last terrorist standing above the woman who had helped him, pistol drawn. Mack launched himself as the man began to shoot. His momentum took the man down and they tumbled against the wall. This time, rage wasn’t enough. Mack’s hands suddenly went limp, his fingers raw and his wrists sprained from his earlier assault. He struggled to hurt the other man, hitting him with his elbow and leg, rolling his body against him and trying to batter him with the side of his head. The man had lost his pistol but pounded him with the flat of his hands, the blows like the shock of an ice pick hitting Mack’s kidney. With a scream Mack tried to get his feet under him, levering himself away. He pulled the terrorist up with him, and they pushed each other against the side of the doorway. Mack felt something swipe him on the side—his enemy had taken out a knife.

Mack threw his head forward and bit at the side of the man’s face, wholly animal now, wholly a creature of violence determined to survive. He threw every part of his body against his enemy and the knife clattered away. But Mack tumbled down, out on the wooden walkway, thrown by the other’s fury. Mack’s face landed against something soft and wet; he smelled salt and sweat. Realizing he’d landed in the chest of one of the men he’d killed, he looked for a weapon; he found the hilt of a knife and pulled it from the man’s belt.

The other terrorist had recovered his knife and charged him. Mack thought he would impale him as he came but he missed, his enemy ducking away in a bizarre dance and toppling to the ground. Mack tried to jump on him but tripped, as well. The knife flew toward the other man, who managed to duck it.

As Mack sprawled he saw one of the rifles. He grabbed at it desperately, trying to swing it up and fire. But he couldn’t reach the trigger quickly enough and the terrorist kicked it away. Mack grabbed at the leg, pushing forward just enough to make the man lose his balance. As the terrorist’s knife waved in front of his face, Mack grabbed at it but missed. He was able to hit the terrorist’s leg and groin, but his blows were weakened by his injuries and pain and the terrorist fell back, regrouping.

The gun, thought Mack. The gun. He threw himself on it. His enemy came once more, diving toward him with the knife.

This time, Mack’s finger found the trigger. The rifle roared beneath his chest, and his whole body reverberated with its ferocious roar.

Aboard “Penn,” over Malaysia

1730

“Dreamland Command says the oil platform has been attacked,” Breanna told Zen. “I can’t get them on the radio.”

“Do they have a feed from the LADS?”

“Dreamland Command does, but they don’t have control of the blimps or the system”

Zen checked their position. They were about two hundred miles from the platform; it would take roughly twenty minutes to get out there.

“I say we have a look,” he told her. “Let’s launch Hawk Two.”

“I agree. I’ll inform Colonel Bastian.”

“Roger that.”

Off the coast of Brunei

1735

The dock floated serenely at the base of the platform, as if there had been no attack at all. Jennifer got out of the boat and lashed the line around the large steel hook.

“Wait!” yelled Liu as she reached for the ladder.

“I’m fine,” she shouted, starting up. “We don’t have much time.”

If he said anything else she didn’t hear it. The first ten feet or so up the ladder remained exactly as it had been, rising perpendicular to the waves. But at that point the ladder twisted with the structure and she found herself climbing on a slant and then twisting with it as it turned on its side. Jennifer was an experienced rock climber, but going up the off-kilter ladder was nonetheless an odd experience. She reached the. first deck and put her foot up, holding herself against the railing and then working to the second ladder, which rose up through a hatchway a few feet away.

The platform seemed to move as she got onto the deck, reverberating maybe with the footsteps of her companions who were just now coming up the ladder. Jennifer tried to ignore the gentle shaking, climbing up the second ladder to the charred and mangled upper deck. A large hole had been blown in the front of the deck to her right where the missile had hit. Metal twisted every which way, and she could see that the double-girdered pier no longer connected to the structure. The building looked as if it had been punched; part of the roof cantilevered up, almost like a baseball cap whose peak was pushed upright. A sooty black star with two dozen arms covered about half the front of the building, but the shock of the explosion had not mangled the interior, and as she crawled out on the sloping deck she could tell that the building itself had not caught fire. Two of the windows, in fact, had managed to somehow stay intact.

The floor of the building angled roughly thirty degrees to the side, sharper than the deck outside. One of the large suitcases that held the LADS control gear had been thrown against the rear wall so hard that it had embedded itself there. But the control panel itself—a pair of large LCD screens that folded out of a long trunk—sat on the desk where they had been mounted at the start of the mission. One of the feed windows on the left-hand screen was blank, but the other showed the ships approaching, with the Quick Bird dancing in front of them.

Jennifer hunched awkwardly in front of the station, one hand against the desk to keep her balance as she punched the keyboard with her right hand. She selected the handoff sequence from the command tree, but after she authorized it the screen seemed to freeze. Cursing, she was about to try again when the superstructure groaned, and the list increased five degrees. She lost her balance and slid all the way to the wall, smacking her head against the deck.

*   *   *

DAZHOU TI WATCHED THE HELICOPTER WITH HIS BINOCULARS, his anger growing with every second. The crew of the Kalsamana continued struggling with their sea-to-air missile battery, unable to lock on the target. The Aspide missile had an effective range of up to 18.5 kilometers; they were now within ten. Because of their incompetence, the gunship that had joined him was now coming under fire.

The Gendikar had been his last command before the Barracuda; his old executive officer was now its captain, and Dazhou knew he could count on his loyalty to the death. The ship had been instructed to stop him—and as soon as the radio instructions were received, its captain had radioed Dazhou to tell him that he wanted to join his crusade.

The Bofors cannon at the front of the other ship began to fire at the helicopter. Something flared from the chopper; it fired a salvo of rockets or missiles at the bridge area of the Gendikar, then bolted away.

“Have you locked the missiles on the helicopter yet?” demanded Dazhou.

“No, Captain”

“Do it quickly,” he said.

When he looked back, he saw that the other ship had stopped firing. The helicopter had managed to put it out of action, at least temporarily.

The American bastards! He would take revenge with his bare hands if necessary.

“Captain, we have a lock,” said one of the men behind him. “Fire, damn it!”

The Albatross Quad launcher shrieked and hissed as a pair of Aspide missiles flew upward. The missiles rose for a short distance, then began angling downward. The helicopter jerked to the right, firing flares and speeding away as the missiles flew toward it. Dazhou gripped his binoculars tightly as he watched first one and then the other missile veer off, exploding harmlessly. As he cursed, a second salvo was launched. This time, four missiles left the ship.

The helicopter seemed not to realize that it had been targeted again. It started back toward the Gendikar, firing another pair of its missiles. Suddenly it veered away, zagging left and right. It ducked the first Aspide but the second found its side, igniting with a red and white spark. The helicopter reared upward, then seemed to slide into another missile. It crashed into the sea, a white and black smear on the waves.

As Dazhou watched the steam and debris settle, he finally felt some of the satisfaction he had longed for. He scanned the ocean; they were now within sight of the platform area.

“It still stands,” he told his crew. “Ready another missile,” Dazhou said. “Strike it again. And let us see to Gendikar.”

As the order was passed, the radar operator called over the other officer. The man looked down at the console and then over at Dazhou with a puzzled expression. “The radar detects something overhead,” he said.

“Where?”

The man pointed in the sky. Dazhou searched the area with his glasses but saw nothing.

“Where?”

He handed the glasses to the other man, who searched in vain. Dazhou stared with his naked eyes, but still saw nothing.

“It appeared immediately after the missile struck the platform. There may have been some sort of radar jammer there.”

“You’re sure it’s not a malfunction?” Dazhou asked.

“I don’t believe so. It’s hovering, like some sort of spy plane, but the signature is small.”

“Shoot at it. Target it and shoot it down.”

DOG WAS WAITING FOR HER IN BED, BECKONING TO HER.

“We should get married,” he told her.

“Married? How?”

“We find a minister—”

“I mean, how would that work?”

“It would work, like now”

Like now? Not better?

Like now with her head slammed up against the wall, her legs tangled up, and the platform swaying?

I’m on the platform, she realized, not in San Francisco.

I have to get out of here!

Jennifer crawled back to the desk. The words CONTROL TERMINATED flashed in the center of the screen. Dreamland now had control of the blimps.

She collapsed the control box, pushing out the large cable that connected it to the power and antenna feeds. One of the de-tents at the bottom failed to clear; she leaned against the cable and the metal sheered off from the box. But though it looked light the control unit weighed nearly two hundred pounds; she tried to pull it off the desktop but it fell to the deck, the crash reverberating and the list increasing.

“We must go now,” said Liu, looming above her.

“Help me get this out.”

“We must go,” he said, taking one end of the control box and pushing it up toward the door.

Jennifer scrambled to follow. Outside, Liu struggled to get the control case up the inclined deck. Jennifer watched as he pushed it past the open hatchway.

“Where are you going?” she asked, and then she realized.

“Don’t!” she shouted, but it was too late—Liu pushed it over the side and the one-of-a-kind-control unit, built at a cost of at least a million dollars, fell into the sea.

“There’s no time,” said Liu. “The ships are coming. Come.”

He grabbed her wrist and pushed her down the hatchway.

Malaysian air base

1735

With their forces stretched thin, Dog oversaw the grim task of removing Major Alou’s body from the Megafortress himself, working with two of the Malaysian soldiers as the dead pilot was carried from the wreck to the bunker area. Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby had already been brought to the small, fetid underground room, along with a Malaysian who had been killed from fragments from one of the shells. Dog pressed his teeth together, ignoring the stench that had already gathered around the bodies; the odor was a final cruelty, depriving the dead men of their last scrap of dignity, reminding all who lived that they, too, would decay.

Starship appeared in the outer bunker area as Dog left. “Lieutenant,” said Dog, nodding at him.

The young man seemed to want to say something. Dog recognized the look in his eyes, the question—the demand, really, for something that would make sense of the deaths of his friends.

No words could do that. Dog simply shook his head.

“We have to carry on as best we can,” he told Starship.

Tears began to slip from the young man’s eyes, though he tried to fight them back. Dog felt a surge of sympathy for the young man, and yet he shared his impotence. He said nothing else, pressing his teeth together and walking toward the wrecked Dreamland Command trailer. Danny Freah had retrieved some of the backup radio gear and set it up in the shade behind it.

“I’ve just been talking to the Brunei army command. They’re about to attack the capital,” said Danny when the call ended. “They have the terrorists on the run.”

“What’s Penn’s status?”

“They’re trying to reach the drilling platform and find out what’s going on with the Malaysian ships. The Malaysian navy claims they’ve been hijacked by the terrorists. Colonel, the platform was hit by at least one missile. The helicopter managed to disable one of the ships but was shot down. Dreamland’s been watching the whole thing, but they haven’t been able to communicate with the Whiplash people since the attack. It may just be that they’re too busy”

Jennifer was with the Whiplash people aboard the platform. Dog resisted the impulse to ask if she was okay—he didn’t want to hear that she wasn’t.

“Penn should be there in a few minutes. There’s a possibility the sultan’s forces will be in control of the capital by nightfall,” added Danny. “The people in the city are rebelling against the terrorists. They want their lives back.”

“I can’t blame them,” said Dog, sitting at the portable communications console so he could get an update from Dreamland Command. The console was actually an oversized laptop attached by wire to a satellite antenna.

“Colonel, the platform has been attacked,” said Major Catsman from the control center.

“I’ve heard.”

“We have control of the system, but we have to make some changes so that we can broadcast the signal over to you. Dr. Ruben has an idea of how to do it by changing the programming in your com units. He needs some technical people to implement it.”

“We have very limited personnel here,” said Dog.

“I’ll take what I can get, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo, appearing on the screen. The scientist’s frown seemed surprisingly reassuring on the small screen.

“All right, then,” said Dog. “Tell me what it is you want me to do”

Over Brunei, near the capital

1745

Sahurah had only been aboard two airplanes in his life, and never one like this. There was a gunner’s post in the center of the cabin behind the pilot and copilot stations; he sat in the seat, looking up at the blue vastness of heaven.

“There, Commander—armored cars on the ground,” said the pilot, Yayasan. “Look!”

Sahurah stared at the sky for a few more moments, soaking in the moment. He wanted to believe that God had sent for him—he felt it strongly. And yet it couldn’t be true.

“Commander?”

The pain at the side of his head returned. Sahurah lifted the microphone on his headset and responded to the pilot.