After forty-five minutes of lunch, he used another State Department supplied formula to excuse himself. The Malaysian protested; he apologized and excused himself again; they protested once more, though less profusely, and Dog repeated the formula. The procedure took ten whole minutes to complete. Finally outside, he and his two escorts made it about halfway up the block before the children appeared again. Once more Dog found his way blocked by a two-year-old. He hoisted the kid to his chest, then scooped up another and made it to the Humvee.
“You could run for mayor, Colonel,” said Lang as they eased the Hummer back onto the highway.
“Yeah.”
“You got kids?” asked the other soldier, who was driving.
Dog laughed. “Yeah. One. She’s a captain in the Air Force. Matter of fact, she should be on the ground back at our little base by now”
The sergeant did a double take. Dog decided that he would recommend the man for a decoration for his diplomatic tact.
“I got a two-year-old,” said the sergeant. “Smartest little kid you ever saw.”
“I’ll bet,” said Dog.
“Then he sure can’t be related to you, huh?” said Lang.
“Always busting my chops,” said the soldier.
As he spoke, the Humvee ran over a mine that had been planted in the road. It exploded under the left front wheel, killing the driver and throwing Dog and the other sergeant out of the vehicle into the brush beyond the shoulder of the highway.
Off the coast of Brunei
1200
Danny Freah hunched over the table in the first room of the oil platform building, looking down at the satellite photos of Brunei Airport spread on its surface. The civilian portion of the airport sat at the right; the military base was beyond, to the left. At the very bottom of the map was a narrow access ramp through a boggy area which led to a trio of large hangars.
The hangars were owned by His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg; he used them to house his impeccable collection of Cold War aircraft, including the MiG-19 that Brunei Air Commodore McKenna wanted to commandeer.
“That section of the airport is completely isolated,” McKenna told him. “There’s a fuel truck in the hangar on the extreme left; we blow the lock, hot-wire the truck, and we’re in business.”
Danny got up and went over to the table where the LADS field control units were set up. Blimp Four was directly over the airport; the three hangars were unguarded and in fact there were no more than a handful of people at the airport.
“Drop me off, I take the MiG,” said McKenna. “Simple as one-two-three.”
“Risky operation to retrieve one aircraft,” Danny said.
“Well, I’d take more if I could.” She laughed and hooked her thumbs into her belt loops, looking a bit like a Canadian cowboy. “You find me some more pilots. I’ve flown that MiG-19, though, and I know I can operate it off my strip. As long as the parachute at the rear works.”
“What else is in there?”
“A very nice but temperamental F-86, a large Tu-16 Badger C—Mack Smith’s claim to fame—and a Hawker Hunter. I don’t know what model Hunter it is, but it dates from the fifties. Everything else he has doesn’t fly, at least not reliably.”
“I’d rather blow them up than steal them.”
“Seems like a waste of good hardware,” she told him. “None of the planes are going anywhere without good pilots. And trust me, there aren’t too many of them on the island. But go ahead—blow them up right after I take the MiG”
“How are you going to maintain the MiG if you take it?”
“Two of bin Awg’s men are back at my base. Think of it this way, Captain: You say you can’t spare either of your helicopters to transport me back to my airbase at least until tomorrow night. This way, not only do I get back to my base, but you take out a potential threat. You trash the hangars and they’ll be out of business.”
“I can order an air strike by the Megafortress,” said Danny. “Less risky.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Danny frowned at her. “This isn’t fun and games”
“Yeah, no shit,” she said. “Look, taking that plane out of there helps everybody and it’s easier than hell. I see by your blimp video thing no one’s around. The approach is isolated from the rest of the airport—it’ll be bodaciously easier than what it took for you to launch that bag of air down south.”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t help me do it, I’ll swim ashore and find my own way to the hangar.”
“Hey, Cap,” said Bison, monitoring the LADS images. “We got movement going into the airport. One vehicle. No—two, a car and a fuel truck”
“They heading toward the Megafortress or the civilian plane?”
Bison waited a second, watching. “Looks like the Megafortress.”
North of Meruta
1209
As Dog started to get up from the dirt he smacked his head against the side of a tree or a rock and rebounded to the side, rolling into a thick clump of brush. He pulled his head back, got his arms under him, and looked up, disoriented and not completely sure what the hell was going on. Something fell against him, a green blur—it was one of the Special Forces soldiers, scrambling back toward the road. Dog pushed after him, then threw himself down as an automatic weapon began popping somewhere to the right. The SF soldier did the same; Dog crawled up next to him and saw that the soldier had recovered his rifle, a small, lightweight version of the M16 favored by special operations troops and known as the M4.
“Got at least two shooters, up over there,” said the soldier. It was Lang. He pointed to the right. “Must’ve planted some sort of mine in the road, detonated it when we got close.”
The Humvee, its front end torn up, sat upside down on the opposite shoulder. One of its tires had been ripped off by the impact and landed in the middle of the road.
“Where’s your partner?” Dog asked.
“Don’t know.”
A burst of bullets slashed through the vegetation. Dog took out his Beretta, but neither he nor Lang fired; it wasn’t clear where the gunners were.
“You cover me while I go to the truck,” said Dog.
Lang started to object, but to Dog it was a no-brainer.
“I’d guess you’re a better shot with that gun than I’ll ever dream of being,” he explained. “If I can get over there and get our radio, we can get all sorts of help. Otherwise those assholes’ll pick us off eventually.”
“Yeah, okay, that makes sense,” said Lang. “You wait until I lay down some fire, okay? When I yell ‘go,’ you just scoot right across. Save your pistol until you have a damn close target.”
“Will do.”
The soldier crawled forward, then fired a short burst, which was immediately answered by at least two enemy soldiers, who fired long, poorly aimed bursts from their weapons, draining their magazines. Lang held his fire until the shooting died down. When it did, he jumped up, shouted “Go!” and began blasting the area where the gunfire had come from.
Dog threw himself toward the Humvee, leaping headlong across the road. He ran several miles every day, but the five or six yards he ran now felt like a marathon. By the time Dog slid down behind the wrecked Humvee, he was out of breath. He rolled onto his belly and crawled along the side of the truck, watching the vegetation on his left.
The driver’s body had been pitched in the tall grass just at the edge of the shoulder. Dog crawled over to him. As soon as he got there he realized the man was dead; his leg had been sheered off and his left arm was a blackened stub. Dog turned away, pushing back to the truck as more gunfire erupted.
The SF men had carried an A/PSC-5 (V), a lightweight but very powerful radio that could use both satellite and UHF frequencies. Dog hunted for it but couldn’t find it in the jumble of the truck. He did see his pack, however. Besides extra ammunition for his pistol, a survival knife, and a small first-aid kit, he had a PRC-90 radio there, an old emergency radio from his flight gear that he habitually carried as a backup.
The pack was wedged against the crushed windshield, next to an M4 rifle. Dog pushed in through the side of the truck, making his way in like a gopher exploring a new hole. As he reached for the pack he saw that his hand was covered with blood; three long, jagged scrapes had been torn along the flesh. He grasped the bag, expecting to have to fight to free it. But it came out easily, and so did the gun. He searched once more for the Special Forces’ radio but couldn’t find it. He got out of the truck and looked around the nearby jungle but saw nothing; finally he went back to the vehicle to look again. As he did, the Humvee began to shake and he heard gunfire in the distance.
They must have some sort of damn mortar in the hills that they’re firing nearby, Dog thought, not realizing at first that the vehicle was shaking because it was being pummeled by bullets. By the time he finally saw he was the target, he was out of the truck and in the shallow ravine. Dog pulled the M4 up, hunched over it, and put his finger on the trigger, aiming in the direction of the gunfire. He braced himself and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked down at the gun, made sure it was loaded, and then looked at his hand, double-checking to make sure he had his finger positioned against the trigger. But still nothing happened when he tried to fire.
Dog stuck the barrel of the rifle into his pack, took out his pistol, then crawled forward along the side of the road. The enemy gunfire had stopped, but Lang waved at him to stay there from across the road. Dog scouted the area for the soldiers’ radio before scrambling back behind the Hummer, where he took the PRC-90 radio from the pack.
While the PRC-90 was still used by some aircrews, it had been superseded by newer models long ago and had a number of drawbacks as a general-purpose radio, not the least of which in this case was its limited range. It had an auto-beacon mode which sent out special distress signals, as well as a voice mode, but it could only communicate effectively with another radio in line-of-sight, and given the terrain there was no hope of being able to contact the Dreamland Command trailer directly. But Dog hoped that its signal might be picked up by one of the LADS units or perhaps an aircraft operating nearby. In any event, it was all they had.
Something caught his eye in the brush about thirty yards away. He pushed the radio transmit switch to “auto beacon,” then tossed it down and pulled out his Beretta. When the shadow moved again he fired twice; the pistol jumped in his hand and his second bullet hit the leaves high above.
Lang yelled something to him, then started firing. As he did, the Humvee was peppered with gunfire. Dog flattened himself, then pulled his pistol into firing position, both hands properly on the weapon this time. He sighted into the brush, waited until he saw something move, then fired. The recoil didn’t seem nearly as bad this time.
“They’re all over the place. Get back here!” Lang yelled.
“Good idea,” shouted Dog. He slipped the radio into the pack and backed up, still moving on his stomach. As bullets began ripping into the ravine, Dog scooped up his knapsack and ran for it, crossing in two bounds and diving head-first into the bushes. Guns popped everywhere. Dog waited for the burn and catch in his stomach and chest, sure he’d been hit. When they didn’t come he turned himself over and crawled on his hands and knees to Lang, pushing the rifle to him and then retrieving the PRC-90.
He made a broadcast. He didn’t get a response but he hadn’t really expected one; he tried twice more, then put the unit back on beacon. The radio was small enough to slide into the pocket on his bullet proof vest.
“I couldn’t find your radio,” Dog told the other man. “This unit has pretty limited range. It may be a while before someone hears mine.”
“I don’t think it matters at the moment,” said the soldier. “We’re on our own here.”
“They’ll send somebody for us.”
“They don’t have anybody to send,” said the soldier. “At least not right away.”
Dog reached back into his pack for his first-aid kit. “Your face is cut up,” he told the soldier. “I have some antibacterial ointment that’ll keep it from getting infected.”
“Save it for yourself.”
“I’m not cut,” he said.
The soldier looked at him as if he were out of his mind.
“I’m cut?” said Dog. Then he remembered that he had gashed his hand and arm. He looked down at it, and saw that much of his uniform was torn and covered with blood. “This is nothing,” he told Lang.
Despite their predicament, the soldier laughed. “That’s the spirit, Colonel. Keep thinking positive.”
Southeastern Brunei
Exact location and time unknown
This time, Mack was ready when the door opened. He’d filled the can with urine and was poised near the door, balanced on his haunches and ready to spring.
He hit the big man full in the face with the urine; as the terrorist reeled backward, Mack bolted through the open space, aiming to flatten the man in the hallway who stood guard with the rifle. He caught him in the neck with his fist, then felt himself tumbling across his body, the AK47 in his hands.
How he got it turned around, much less how he managed to aim it or make sure it was ready to fire, Mack didn’t know. It seemed to him that one second he was smacking his left shoulder against the wall and the next he was standing over the two dead Muslims, the AK47 smoking. The hallway became a cave filled with smoke. Mack saw the door at the end of the hall in front of him and ran for it, sure that flames were roaring behind him.
Someone shouted as he flew through the door. He turned left and right, firing from his hip and not stopping, never stopping as he ran for the road. As he reached it he heard the pop-pop-pop of an assault rifle behind him; the next second he fell nearly straight down. He threw his hands out, realizing he’d slipped onto an embankment, but there was nothing to grip, and he tumbled wildly down a deep ravine, sliding past a thin strip of vegetation to dirt and stone and then mud. He crashed into a wide, deep stream, flailing in the water that bit at him and pushed him wildly backward in its current. At first Mack was content just to get away. Then he realized the rushing water represented a danger all its own. He tried to grab something, anything, and stop himself from being carried away. Finally, at least a mile if not more from where he had gone in, Mack crashed into a log and managed to hold on.