Текст книги "Armageddon"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“I don’t know. They came out of the terrorists’ territory.”

“What are we going to do?” Jennifer asked.

“Wait for another signal from the Flighthawk,” he told her. “We can always run into shore if we have to.”

Jennifer looked at the ships. If they kept on their present course, they would come within a mile of them. Retreating seemed like a poor option, given that there might be more Malaysian ships beyond those that had attacked the platform. Nor did it seem like a good bet to try running out to sea.

Beaching wasn’t a no-brainer, though. As far as they knew, the shoreline was controlled by the terrorists and Liu was the only one who had a weapon.

Malaysian air base

1823

DOG HAD THE LADS CAMERA AT ITS MAXIMUM RESOLUTION. There were people moving around on the narrow deck near the gun at the bow.

Jennifer was in one of the boats. More than anything else he wanted to be there with her—with all of his people, but her especially.

The ships started to turn toward the Dreamland boats. “Bree! The ships are turning,” he blurted over the Dreamland com channel. “They’re going for the Zodiacs.”

Off the coast of Brunei

1825

Zen angled Hawk One toward the prow of the first ship, charging downward. He had only a few dozen bullets left in the guns. Hawk Two, still catching up, was another minute and a half behind.

The targeting pipper in Hawk One blinked yellow. He didn’t have a shot yet.

“THEY’RE COMING TOWARD US,” JENNIFER TOLD LIU.

“What’s the Flighthawk doing?”

“I don’t see it—wait, here it comes. He’s diving on them”

“Attacking?”

Jennifer stared at the small black dart diving toward the water. If he was attacking, she’d know in a few seconds.

THE MATKAS LOOKED LIKE SOUPED-UP AMERICAN PT BOATS, with a large single-barrel gun at the bow and a pair of large boxes on either side from amidships to the stern. The boxes housed anti-ship missiles in this case, though the vessels could also carry surface-to-air weapons. Zen put his nose on the rounded superstructure just aft of the cannon; it was no larger than the cabin you’d find on a good-sized pleasure boat back home, though rather than fiberglass it was padded with armor.

A man stepped from the cabin as Zen’s weapons indicator turned red. Zen saw him clearly in the center of the screen. He hesitated, then realized why.

The man was waving his hands.

No, he had both hands up.

Zen couldn’t see what was going on at first. He had to circle around and drop his speed, taking a pass from the rear. There were three men on the stern of the ship, all with their hands raised in the air.

“Hey, Bree, I think they’re surrendering.”

“To us or the Zodiacs?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I hope it’s the Zodiacs,” she told him. “Because water landings are hell on the landing gear.”

VIII

P ARADISE R EGAINED

Sultan’s palace, Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)

24 October 1997, 1120

THE CEREMONY TO HONOR THE DREAMLAND FORCE FOR ITS bravery and indispensable aid liberating the country was moving enough that every one of the honorees had tears running down his or her cheeks by the end.

All but one—Zen Stockard.

Maybe losing the use of his legs had made him cynical. But as he listened to the sultan’s speech and the promises to bring “gradual democracy” to the nation, the air force major found his skepticism growing. The sultan might want to do the right thing—most people had good intentions, Zen thought—but when push came to shove, giving away power and money took a heck of a lot more than words.

But he didn’t share the cynicism with anyone else. In fact, he found himself in a rather good mood as the ceremony continued, smiling as his friends were honored. Deci Gordon had grown a scraggly beard during his stay in hiding; except for that, he was in fine shape, accepting a medal for having helped a small contingent of local citizens retake a police station around the time the attack on the platform had been thwarted. Deci was given the keys to the police station; he joked that he hoped he’d never need them.

There were medals for everyone, from Dog to the maintainers who had pitched in and cleared the Badger wreckage from the field at Brunei IAP. Mack Smith seemed to become almost humble as the sultan honored him in what seemed to be a knighting ceremony, making him officially “A Constant Protector of the Kingdom,” a title that seemed to have been invented especially for the occasion, and one which apparently gave Mack a million dollar a year pension for life.

It figured that Mack would land with his boots in lucky shit.

Starship had taken the loss of Kick pretty hard. Zen didn’t blame him. Dog had already arranged some time off for the kid, and suggested that he spend it in Hawaii—where, it just so happened, the MC-17 was bound this afternoon.

And, another coincidence surely, the sultan of Brunei happened to own a nice hotel suite that wasn’t going to be used by the royal family for the foreseeable future.

Prince bin Awg, who before the revolt had had a reputation as a lightweight partier, had proved himself anything but. Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay had told Zen last night that the prince was working behind the scenes to make sure his uncle kept his promise about bringing democracy to the country sooner rather than later.

Maybe he would. He had proven remarkably resilient, even taking the destruction of his aircraft collection in stride. Zen decided he would try to keep an open mind—at least for the next eighteen hours they were to spend on Brunei.

“So you ready to resume our picnic?” Breanna asked him as the ceremony finally ended.

“I don’t really feel like picnicking,” he told her.

“You want to stay for the reception?” She glanced toward the side of the large palace room, where the crowd of dignitaries was heading toward the first of several large parties planned in their honor.

“Of course not,” said Zen. “Dog said we could slip out, and I’m taking him at his word”

“What then?”

“Why don’t we go to the restaurant at the hotel, sit in the quiet corner way in the back, have lunch—then go upstairs for some personal time in the room”

Breanna raised her eyebrows.

“You look good in that scarf,” Zen told her. She’d had to cover her head for the ceremony—even heroes were expected to be modest, at least when they were women.

“Maybe I’ll wear it at after lunch,” Breanna retorted.

“I don’t think so,” said Zen. And then, remembering their last telephone conversation before things got tight on Brunei, he added, “Maybe we can discuss the kid thing later.”

“The ‘kid thing’?”

“Yeah. We can talk about it.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant and honest at the same time. He wasn’t so sure about the former, but the latter was a must. “I haven’t made up my mind. We need to seriously talk.”

“We are,” she said. She bent over and kissed him.

“Fight fair,” he told her.

“Who’s fighting?”

JENNIFER HAD DONNED A LONG DRESS WITH AN ELABORATE scarf as a sign of propriety for the ceremony. It was everything Dog could do to keep himself from staring at her the whole time. He managed to get next to her as they walked to the reception room in the palace and gently touched her elbow.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispered.

“I’m the only woman here,” she said.

There were others, actually, but Dog had a ready answer. “As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“That’s good,” she said, sliding her arm through his. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk with your wife.”

“What?” said Dog.

“I thought it might be fun.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Should I be threatened?”

“Hardly.”

She reached up and touched the side of his face. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

Dog looked into her eyes. He felt an almost irresistible urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her. The only reason he didn’t was the certainty that he’d never settle for a kiss.

“Colonel, excuse me. Can I have a word?”

Dog turned. Major Mack Smith—now Sir Lord Protector of the Kingdom Mack Smith—stood next to him.

“You have poor timing, Major.”

“I’m sorry” He turned to Jennifer. “I’m sorry. Excuse me just a second. I really am sorry.”

“You feeling okay, Major?” asked Dog. Ordinarily, Mack didn’t apologize to anyone, not even him.

“I’m fine. Can we talk? Over here, out of the way.”

Dog followed Mack toward the side of the room, away from the swirl of dignitaries and officials filling the hall.

“I want to come back to Dreamland,” said Mack.

“But you’re rich. You’re a hero here.”

“This isn’t for me. I don’t want the money:’

Dog looked at Smith. He’d been through a lot, not just during his brief captivity but in the weeks leading up to it.

“You can’t just walk away from the sultan and the prince. The air force needs you.”

“They have McKenna,” said Mack. He pointed across the room, where the Brunei air force commodore—in a dress, no less—was holding court with other members of the central defense ministry. “She’s ten times as competent an administrator as I was, she has those bozos eating out of her hand. And between you and me, Colonel, she may even be a better pilot than I am”

“Mack, I don’t think I’ve heard you say that about anyone,” said Dog.

Smith shrugged. “Can I come back?”

“Well, uh, sure. Of course. I mean, I don’t know if I have a specific slot but, of course. We can work it out”

“Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate it.”

“Where are you going?” Dog asked as Mack turned around.

“Take a walk, get some food. Get my gear. Say good-bye for me, would you?”

“Mack—”

Smith didn’t stop.

Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)

24 October 1997, 1320

Sahurah made his way slowly down the street. With each step, the pain pummeled the side of his head. But soon—very, very soon—he would be free of pain.

He would be in Paradise.

When he was fifty feet from the entrance of the hotel, he saw a man walking toward him. At first glance, something about the man caught his attention. It was not simply the fact that the man was a Westerner. There was something about the stride that was hauntingly familiar. Though the sides of his head pounded, Sahurah stopped in the street.

It was the man who had saved him at the airport, Smith.

How was it that he was still alive? And here?

Only if he was a devil, surely.

Sahurah started to run toward the hotel.

MACK SAW THE MAN IN THE LONG COAT GLARE AT HIM, THEN bolt for the nearby building.

Weird stinking place, he thought to himself.

Then he realized who it was.

“Hey!” he yelled, chasing after the man. “Hey!”

The man reached the threshold of the hotel. Mack yelled at the doorman to stop him. As he did, he tripped over the step and lost his footing, flying headfirst into the ornate pillar that separated the portico from the building. He managed to get to his knees and somehow slid forward, pushing himself toward the man.

“Stop him!” he yelled, pushing past the guards.

Sahurah glanced over his shoulder as he entered the doorway of the restaurant. Mack half leapt, half fell, stretching out his arm in a desperate attempt to grab the terrorist.

“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK,” SAID BREANNA, GETTING UP FROM THE table. “I have to use the powder room”

“I’ll be here,” said Zen. He maneuvered his chair slightly to get a glimpse of the pianist, who was set up in the corner near the front of the large room. Breanna had had to insist that they be given a table back here off to the side; the waiters felt it wasn’t dignified enough for national heroes and wanted the couple up front where everyone could see them. Zen would have ordered room service instead; he didn’t want to be gawked at. In his mind, the hero stuff was just cover to “sneak a peek at the geek in the chair.”

He turned and watched his wife walk down the hall. The ladies room was at the far end, providing a fine opportunity for an extended view of his wife’s very attractive figure as she walked.

He was just turning back around when he heard a commotion at the front of the room. Someone screamed, and then Zen felt himself being slammed backward to the floor.

BREANNA FELT THE EXPLOSION JUST AS SHE CLOSED THE door to the restroom. The floor rumbled and someone shrieked; she slipped as she pulled the door open, falling to her knees. Six or seven people ran past as she finally opened it. Dust was thick in the air. The lights blinked out. She started back toward the dining room where she’d left her husband.

“No! No!” yelled a man, stopping her.

“I must get my husband”

“Suicide bomber! No,” said the man. He started pushing her back. Breanna resisted, but another man, this one in uniform, grabbed her and together they carried her down the hallway and out a back door.

“DO YOU WANT TO WALK?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Do you want to walk?”

“How?” demanded Zen.

“Do you want to walk?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Do you want to walk?”

Zen decided it was a trick.

And then a face appeared, a small pinkish-white face, the face of a baby.

“Do you want to walk?” asked the voice again. It didn’t come from the baby, but the baby was all he could see.

“Well, who the hell wouldn’t want to walk?” said Zen finally.

“Then come with me.”

“No,” said Zen. “No.”

“Do you want to walk?”

Zen shook his head. “No, I don’t want to walk!” he yelled. “I don’t want to walk!”

The baby’s face morphed into a dragon’s snout, leering at him. Zen closed his eyes.

“Are you there? Are you there? Are you there?”

“I’m not here,” he said finally.

“Are you there?”

Something moved to his side.

“Are you all right?” said the voice again.

“Yeah, 1 guess I’m okay,” he said. He saw that he was on the ground, in a little space formed by part of the ceiling, which was angled against the pillar that had been near his table.

“We’re going to get you out,” said the voice.

“Fine with me,” he said.

“Your legs are pinned.”

“It’s all right.”

“Can you move them?”

“I’m a paraplegic. I haven’t been able to move them for a long time,” he said. The words were loud and strong, almost as if he were bragging.

Maybe he was bragging. Imagine that.

“I couldn’t use my legs before the explosion. I’m okay. Just get me out.”

Of course I want to walk, he told himself as the rescuers pulled off the debris piece by piece. Who the hell doesn’t? The question is, where?

“ZEN! ZEN!” SHOUTED BREE A FEW MINUTES LATER AS THE Brunei rescue people carried him on a stretcher to the back of the building, where a triage center had been set up.

Zen raised his head. “Hey. Hope you had a good leak.”

“I’m glad you can joke,” she said.

“So am I”

He could tell she had been crying, but Breanna had daubed her face so he wouldn’t think so.

Ever since the accident, Breanna had tried to never let him see her cry. He knew she was doing it for him—the doctors had probably told her she had to keep his morale up—but it irked him sometimes. Not now, though. Now he was just glad as hell that she was okay.

*   *   *

IT SEEMED TO MACK THAT IT HAPPENED IN REVERSE. It seemed that he found himself covered with ice, then felt incredible pain, then saw the bomb exploding. Only after it exploded did he reach out.

By then he was already dead.

Except that he wasn’t dead. If he were dead he would not feel pain, and he felt incredible pain.

And ice under his back.

Maybe you did feel pain when you died. Maybe saying that you felt no pain was just what people said. After all, who would know?

He knew. Because he had died and then the bomb exploded and then he was alive, in ridiculous pain.

“You will be okay, Minister.”

Mack blinked his eyes, struggling to get them to focus.

He was in a hospital bed. At least he assumed it was a hospital bed—he heard machines, saw white, smelled something antiseptic.

His back was tremendously cold.

“You will walk again.”

Who was talking to him?

Mack forced his eyes to find Prince bin Awg, who stood on his right.

“Is this a dream?”

“No, Minister. You’re awake. And alive.” The prince had a faint, slightly patronizing smile. “The doctor says it is a temporary injury, very severe but temporary. You will walk.”

“Don’t let them operate on me,” he told the prince.

Bin Awg looked embarrassed. “The operation was two days ago.”

“Two days?”

“You had many injuries.”

“I had many injuries?”

The prince nodded grimly.

“I—I’m not going to stay. I have to go back to Dreamland,” Mack said. “I’m sorry—this administrative stuff, the job isn’t for me”

“Rest,” said the prince, putting his hand on Mack’s chest. “Rest.”

“I have to go back.”

“You will.”

Mack tried to push his elbows up beneath him. He got the left one in place but the right one didn’t move. The right one felt as if it didn’t exist.

In a panic, he looked over to the side of the bed, then turned away, then looked back.

But his arm was there; even though he couldn’t feel it, at least it was there.

He couldn’t feel his legs either.

His toes?

Nothing on his legs. They were like—a buzz? No, it was more like a thought of something that he just missed seeing. His back felt ridiculously cold and the side of his neck—that buzzed.

“God, my legs:’ he said.

“You’ll be okay,” said the prince. “You’ll be okay.”

“I tried to stop him. The suicide bomber. I tried to stop him.”

“You kept him from getting very far. He detonated himself so close to the doorway that there were not many injuries. Your friends were all okay. They’ve been waiting to see you for four days now. Do you wish to see them?”

God, my legs, thought Mack. Oh God, my legs.