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.
And situations were developing. The sultan’s army had retaken two posts on the southern border with Malaysia and now seemed in firm control of the southwestern third of the country. Police units in the towns on the northern coast that had not fallen to militants had rallied over the course of the day. A number of telephone and power lines that had been cut had been restored. Loyal forces had won a major battle with guerillas near Kapit, killing over a hundred. Neither LADS nor the patrolling Megafortresses had detected any Malaysian army units assisting the terrorists, and in at least one instance a Malaysian army unit had helped the Brunei police force pursuing a group of rebels over the northeastern border.
On the other hand, the militants had spent the preceding day tightening their grip on the area around the capital. They controlled the shoreline and had appropriated at least two small patrol boats, operating them on the river.
The LADS system provided low-powered radar coverage of much of the kingdom. It also provided video coverage of much of the capital and several major road and waterways, along with the entrance to the harbor and the platform where Whiplash was. Two more units were en route from Dreamland; one was intended for the Malaysian air base, and the other would be used as a roving sentry. Twice as long as the others, the sentry carried better resolution cameras and could be flown higher and faster. It did not, however, include the LED technology that made the others almost impossible to see from the ground.
Dog steadied Penn into her final approach for the runway, fighting the optical illusions that made it appear as if it were two different roads, a ravine, and a set of boulders. The men on the ground had cleared the obstructions and assured him that it was solid concrete covered by paint; Dog focused on the landing cues in his HUD and settled perfectly onto the runway.
“And for our next trick, we land in downtown Las Vegas,” joked McNamara, his copilot, as they spotted one of the Special Tactics controllers playing traffic cop near the end of the runway. He had them turn on an apron to an access ramp at the side; from the sky it had appeared to be a pond, though up close the camouflage didn’t work nearly as well, making it seem more like an abstract painting by Mark Rothko. The trees bordering the ramp were real enough, as was a collection of jagged rocks; the path was too narrow for the Megafortress and so Dog had to park the plane there.
Dog had picked up a three-man U.S. Army Special Forces team in the Philippines; the men had worked with the Malaysian military in the past and would assist with setting up security, which was to be provided by the local Malaysian forces for the time being.
“All right, let’s get the plane squared away and assess the situation,” he told the crew and the soldiers below as they shut down the engines. “McNamara, you find out what the status of the C-17 is with our tech people and maintainers while I go talk with the locals. Don’t anybody go too far away,” he added. “I hear the snakes in the jungle can be pretty vicious.”
Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia
0800
Dazhou Ti felt as if the terrace he was standing on had given way and he was now falling toward the sea. The smokestack of the tug that had brought him to the seaside town loomed below, a black whirlpool sucking him toward that abyss.
General Udara had traveled to the seaside town to speak to Dazhou personally: not to berate him for losing the
Barracuda,
but to tell him that the war was over. The sultan was to be allowed to regain his kingdom.
“Impossible,” said Dazhou, who had only finished notifying the kin of his dead crewmen an hour before. “Impossible.”
“The president has decided,” said Udara.
“No. No. My men have died.” The general was not a man to argue with, but Dazhou could not help himself. “No,” he repeated. “This cannot be. There is so much to be done—the Americans, we can defeat them. They’re paper tigers.”
“You of all people should know they’re not,” said Udara. “They proved it in their encounter with your ship. This all helps us in the long run,” added the general, trying to remain upbeat. “Because the guerillas will be taken care of by the Americans. Leaving the maggot sultan and his family alone is a small price for ridding ourselves of the fanatics. Kuala Lumpur has spoken,” he said. He referred to the central command, not the prime minister, and meant that the matter was closed.
“No,” said Dazhou.
Udara’s patience was now exhausted. His face flushed, its brownish tint becoming nearly purple with his rage.
“You will accept your orders, Chinaman!” he thundered. “You will do as you are told!”
“My men,” Dazhou said. “They must be revenged”
“You will do as you are told. You are lucky, Dazhou, that I remember the contributions you have made, and your own glory under fire. Because otherwise I would pummel you with these two fists.”
Their faces were so close that Dazhou felt the heat of the general’s rising blood. He knew that the proper action now—no matter what he really intended—was to feign submission, to pretend to be willing to go along with his orders. But he could not control his emotions sufficiently to make an accommodating gesture, even a small one. The best he could do was keep himself from yelling back at the general.
“Do you understand me, Dazhou?” said Udara.
“I have no ship,” he managed finally.
The general took a step away. “Then the matter is settled.”
Dazhou didn’t respond. Udara had not berated him for losing the
Barracuda,
but this was completely in character for the general. Since he had nothing to do with its creation or operations, Udara looked on it as just another weapon, little more than a jeep or armored car that could go to sea.
Kuala Lumpur would have a considerably different view. Dazhou’s options were clear. Either he ran, or he sought revenge.
“Do you understand me?” Udara said, once more master of his emotions.
“I have no ship,” Dazhou repeated. “And no men.”
Udara nodded grimly. “War is a difficult thing.”
Somehow, Dazhou managed to nod, rather than telling the general what he really thought of his easy cliché.
Bandar Seri Begawan (capital of Brunei)
1000
Sahurah’s head throbbed constantly, a sharp thump at the top and right side, God’s drumbeat calling him to task for his failures.
How could he doubt the wisdom of his teachers?
How could he think that the devil American was as honorable and holy as he?
Sahurah tried to set the questions aside, tried to ignore his transgressions, his many failings. He had to concentrate on his duties. Brothers were streaming into the city, each one willing to do what needed to be done, but each needing to be shown his responsibilities step by step. Sahurah had selected several deputies, but they still turned to him for orders. He had become the most important person in the capital, after the imam.