“Colonel Bastian?”
“Hi, Jed.”
“President wants to speak to you, sir.”
The screen blinked, and Kevin Martindale appeared at the front of the room.
“Tecumseh, thanks for cutting short your weekend,” said Martindale.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve just had a National Security meeting discussing the situation in Brunei. Terrorists have launched a concerted attack against the entire country. There are rumors, which no one has been able to prove yet, that Malaysia may be involved as well. ASEAN is having an emergency session this evening, our time, to discuss the matter. In the meantime, it may be necessary to evacuate American nationals. The nearest carrier group was up north watching ‘ China and it’s going to be some time before they can get there in force, but they’re en route. Because your people are somewhat familiar with the sultan, I’d like you to stand by to offer assistance if necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog.
“I want someone I can trust to talk to the sultan,” said Martindale.
“Yes, sir.”
“We promised them two Megafortresses. Can they be delivered?”
“We do have two aircraft, but they’re not ready for them to take possession,” said Dog. “They still have Flighthawk apparatus.”
“What if we get them into the area, then prepare on the ground once they’re in place?”
“My crews would have to operate them in the meantime,” said Dog.
“How soon can they get there?” asked the president.
“They can take off tonight, along with transports to assist any evacuation, if needed. And security.”
“Do it.”
“Sir, I’ve received an informal request from their air force defense minister for weapons,” Dog added.
“What sort?”
Dog hesitated for a moment. Mack had spoken to Danny earlier, asking for “anything and everything.” It was a highly unorthodox request; even if Dreamland had been a “normal” air force command, U.S. units weren’t in the habit of loaning out missiles.
“They’re looking for air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles,” said Dog. “The Megafortress that we provided to them under the first phase of the demonstration project was equipped with Stinger airmines only.”
Someone stepped close to the president, and Dog saw an aide giving him advice.
“We’ll have to look into the request,” said the president finally. “There are treaty implications. But in the meantime, any Dreamland assets that are in the area must be equipped to defend themselves. Is that understood?”
“Amply, sir.”
“This is a Whiplash order,” added the president, making the deployment official. “You get with Jed if you need anything else.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dog as the screen went blank.
He looked over at the lieutenant on the communications desk.
“Tell Danny Freah it’s official. We’re deploying tonight. Get Zen as well. Is Breanna still on Brunei?”
“I believe she may be en route back home”
“See if you can locate her. You better call Major Catsman as well.”
“She’s on her way, sir. Chief Gibbs also called a little while ago to alert you that he would be in.”
“Ax called you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dog thought of something else. He picked up the base phone and called over to Jennifer’s apartment.
“Hey,” he said when she answered.
“Well, hey yourself. Are we having dinner?”
“Maybe,” he said, glancing at his watch. “If you come over to my office with it.”
She hesitated a second but then said, “All right.”
“Where’s Ray Rubeo about now, do you think?” Dog asked.
“Uh, well, this being Saturday night ..
“You’re not going to tell me something I don’t want to know, are you?”
“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?”
RAY RUBEO PUT HIS LIPS AGAINST THE SILVER PIPE, hesitating for just a moment. He felt the muscles in his neck tense slightly as he pursed his lips; he tried to relax them, took a breath, then began to blow.
The beeper on his belt buzzed just as the first notes came out from the flute.
“It figures,” said the scientist.
His flute teacher looked up at him through her thick glasses.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut my session short.”
“Go ahead, young man,” she told him. “Your family is more important.”
Rubeo, bound by his agreements with the government not to divulge anything about his activities to outsiders, growled to himself but did not correct her.
THE MAN IN CHARGE OF THE KITCHEN AT DREAMLAND’S Red Room—officially an all-ranks mess but closer in practice to a civilian-style grill—was an air force staff-sergeant who not only looked younger than Jennifer but was twice as skinny. How Sergeant Jorge Boca stayed thin was undoubtedly a classified military secret, but one bite of his food cleared up any doubt how he had achieved his rank at such a young age: he had surely been promoted on merit.
Sergeant Boca could prepare anything from killer barbecue to grilled tuna with chipotle chili sauce. Dreamland might be the only military base in the country where seafood crepes were a regular feature on the lunch menu. And his blue-cheese burgers were worth marching twenty miles through the desert for.
It was his potato salad that Jennifer sought now. The wizard himself was on duty, dicing carrots as he oversaw his staff.
“Ms. Gleason of the wonderful long hair,” he said as she snuck in the back.
“Not any more,” said Jennifer.
“Have to come up with a new name,” said Boca, sliding his carrots aside. “What can we do you for?”
“A little picnic dinner?”
Sergeant Boca waved his knife in the air as if it were a baton. “For tomorrow?”
“For ten minutes ago.”
“Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer.”
“Cold chicken?”
“Tuna niçoise salad,” he answered, veering toward the refrigerator.
* * *
“I HAVE NO DOUBT ABOUT THE SENSOR COVERAGE,” SAID Rubeo, frowning at the map of Borneo Dog had spread over his conference room table a half hour later. “Deploying the blimps is another matter entirely. They have to be launched from the ground.”
“My guys can handle it in an afternoon,” said Danny Freah. “We just helicopter in to these six spots and we’re set. Once they’re in, we can add the others as we go”
“You’re assuming the Bruneians are going to remain in control of things there,” said Rubeo.
“You don’t think they will?” Dog asked.
The scientist merely frowned.
The alternative involved launching the blimps from the rear of a cargo plane at twenty-two thousand feet. It had been done twice during trials at Dreamland, using Dreamland’s MC-17D/W, a special version of the C-17 cargo aircraft. The results had been mixed.
“I think worse case scenario, we can still set them up,” said Danny. “We bring them into an area via helicopter, inflate them, and launch.”
“Really, Colonel, I think you’re pushing the development envelope here:’ said Rubeo.
“Oh, come on, Doc, they’ve passed all the preliminary tests,” said Dog. “They’ll provide round-the-clock coverage without us having to fly a Megafortress twenty-four/seven.”
“If they work.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” said Dog.
“Am I interrupting?” Jennifer asked.
“Hopefully:’ said Rubeo.
“I brought some dinner,” she said.
“Great!” said Danny, helping her with the cooler.
“I didn’t realize it was a party:’ she said. “Or I would have brought more.”
Dog saw the disappointment she was hiding behind her smile.
I’m going to marry her, he thought. If she’ll have me.
“Jennifer, as an uninterested bystander,” said Rubeo, “is LADS ready to be deployed?”
Dog held his tongue.
“I don’t see why not. The technology is all off-the-shelf, with the exception of the airships themselves. Where?”
“Brunei,” said Rubeo.
“When are we leaving?”
“You’re not,” said Dog.
“Why not? I hear it’s a great place.”
“Until a few days ago,” said Danny. “There’s some sort of revolt or religious uprising going on”
Jennifer looked at Dog. Part of him wanted her along. The other part wanted her far from harm’s way.
“LADS isn’t your system,” he told hez.
“Technical people will have to be along,” she said. “Who’s going to supervise the engineering team? Ray?”
“Hardly necessary,” said Rubeo.
Dog looked at her. “We’re deploying tonight. I wasn’t planning on bringing a technical team. Danny’s people have already trained on the equipment.”
“You need a technical team. And maintainers.”
“For blimps?” said Rubeo.
“As a follow-on, sure,” said Dog. “After we assess the situation.”
“It should deploy with the weapons system.” Jennifer crossed her hands in front of her chest, the way she always did when she knew she was right. “And there should be an evaluation team as well, headed by a senior scientist.”
“Probably as a follow-on,” said Dog. “Depending on the situation. It’s volatile.”
“It is,” said Danny, who was munching on a chicken leg.
“We’re setting up camp at an oil platform, Jen. It’s not going to be a picnic.”
“I was in Iraq, remember?”
“We’ll bring the support team in once the situation has been assessed,” said Dog. “And an evaluation team.”
“I’ll be ready to take off in two hours,” said Jennifer, starting to leave.
“You won’t be needed until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest,” said Dog, pulling over the food. “Stay and have some dinner.”
Brunei
12 October 1997, (local) 0640
McKenna took a low pass over the palace compound. She saw a few figures moving near the building, but was moving far too fast to get a good read on what she was seeing.
“Dragon One to control—you have that forward-air-controller down there yet?” she asked as she pulled off. She wanted to get a handle on the ground situation and make sure she didn’t hit any of their own people.
“We’re working on it, Dragon One.”
“Well work harder,” she snapped. She watched her wing-mate come over the palace on the side near the sea. It didn’t appear as if anyone on the ground fired at him.
“Two, I’m going to take a real slow pass back over the dome,” she said. “Hang back and see if anyone fires at me. I want to get this sorted out”
The little Cessna poked her nose down toward the ground, settling down to a brisk walk over the compound at treetop level. This time McKenna saw several knots of men in what looked like white pajamas near the walls. These were obviously the guerillas.
Three bodies in plainclothes lay sprawled near the building. A green British Land Rover sat near the gate on the far side of the compound. McKenna saw a grenade explode near the vehicle. From this altitude, the shock of smoke appeared harmless, though she realized it was anything but. She saw a pair of vans parked on a side street, a large group of men in white near it.
The forward-air-controller finally came on over the police frequency. It was one of the security people who had been with Mack yesterday when he rescued her from the ministry. The man had received training in directing aircraft for attack, but it still took a few exchanges for her to work out where he was and vice versa.
“I’m going to hit those vans,” she told him once it was clear the government troops were not nearby. “Tell the officer in charge there.”
“Yes, yes, he says do it.”
McKenna tipped forward in her seat, pushing against the restraints as the ground flew through the optical sighting panel ahead of her. The wind was minimal, and as she came in from the water side she had a clear run at the vans. Still, the close quarters and her low altitude made the bombing run dangerous as well as complicated; for the first time since she’d arrived she saw tracers arcing in her directions. She hunched her body around the stick, ignoring them, ignoring everything but the slowly changing view and pipper marks in front of her eyes. The vans jerked into her crosshairs and she pickled, loosing all four bombs as she pulled back on the stick. Heavy flak erupted just off her left wing as she climbed. McKenna coaxed the Cessna upward as the air began percolating and rumbling with the exploding shells. She cleared right into the open air and saw her wingmate about a thousand feet above her and a quarter mile to the south.
“Two, where was that flak coming from?”
“Tank mounted weapon,” said the other pilot.
“One of ours?”
“Looks like.”
The weapon was apparently a Brunei army vehicle that had been stolen from its base. A Panhard M3 VDA, the French-built twenty-millimeter cannon had radar guidance but was apparently being operated by sight—otherwise McKenna would have been perforated. The gun was now being used to chew up the area in front of the highway at the entrance to the palace compound; guerillas were moving behind it.
“Two, can you get that gun?” McKenna asked.
“Roger that,” said the copilot.
“I’m going to cover your butt and clean up after your pass,” she added, working the A-37B around.
IT HAD GONE BETTER THAN SAHURAH HAD DARED IMAGINE. Besar, though clearly a degenerate, had pulled off the impossible and stolen the self-propelled cannon from under the noses of the army. Their main force was now in control of two of the four sides of the palace perimeter; inside, they were engaged in a battle with forces in the main ministry building. Once they took care of those forces, they could move on to the palace itself, using the roof of the ministry to lay down gunfire.
Two jets danced overhead. Sahurah looked up from his position as one of the planes dropped its bombs on the city-side and the Panhard anti-aircraft gun began firing. He wasn’t sure what the target was; Besar had a command station in that area but from where Sahurah stood he could see nothing.
One of his squad leaders motioned from the corner of the building. Sahurah ducked his head and ran forward, sliding down as he neared the man. The headache that had haunted him yesterday was gone and he had fresh hope—perhaps he would die today and become a martyr.
“Commander, the enemy has a machine-gun inside the building,” said the squad leader.