Armageddon (19 page)

And then he knew they were safe.

“Very good,” he told the helmsman, even before the defensive weapons operator and the radarman reported that they had lost track of the enemy missile.

“Head back toward our targets,” Dazhou said calmly. “Let’s make sure they don’t need to be finished off. Remain in stealth mode. Do not activate radar except on my command,” he added.

Within seconds, they were pointed back toward the two Brunei patrol ships. Both were on fire, one clearly taking water. A distress signal came over the radio band.

“Go no closer than ten kilometers,” Dazhou told his helmsman.

“Aye-aye, captain.”

His crew had performed well. He himself, however, might have realized why the SS-N-9 had stayed on them much sooner than he had. In truth, the earlier attacks had made him far too cocky; he should have approached without his radar as he had before.

An important lesson. He would remember to apply it tomorrow, when the stakes would be even higher.

IV
H
IGH
S
TAKES

South of the Philippines
12 October 1997, 0308

MACK CHECKED HIS GPS READING AS HE APPROACHED THE dark island, making sure he was in the right place before taking the Megafortress down through the storm. Jalan, his copilot, seemed calmer than he had been yesterday; maybe the fact that the man had had very little sleep before being roused for the mission had calmed him somehow.

“Infrared still blocked:’ said the copilot as Mack pushed the Megafortress downward.

“Yeah, the rain’s going to play havoc with our sensors:’ Mack told him, speaking over the interphone. “I want you to watch our altitude and that little lump of sugar guarding the approach”

“Yes, Minister.”

The “lump of sugar” was a mountaintop 1,335 meters above sea level which Mack had to skirt to get onto the runway. As an added bonus, the runway would have no lights and be wet besides. But then again this was probably the perfect weather for arms smugglers.

McKenna’s contact had promised eight Sparrow missiles, two Sidewinders, and a dozen five-hundred-pound bombs. To pay for this windfall, Mack had emptied the air force treasury of the hard currency kept in the safe for operational emergencies—essentially petty cash, though fifty thousand American dollars was hardly petty. The cash was just the down payment; he had had to authorize wire transfers from a number of accounts, including his own. All together, the black marketeer had demanded $265,000 for the weapons. That was a veritable bargain, as the U.S. air force reckoned the cost of one Sparrow missile at $225,700, but then again, these guys didn’t have the same overhead costs.

“There, Minister,” said Jalar, pointing to the peak, a shadowy lump of danger materializing in the right half of the windscreen.

Mack was closer to the mountain than he’d thought. He nudged the stick slightly, blowing a wad of air from his lungs. The computer helping him fly the plane now came into its own; he selected the synthetic landing assist module and a ghost of the unlit airfield appeared at the top of a small square on his HUD. Mack had programmed the destination into the computer before takeoff; the silicon brain was able to find the airfield in its extensive database even though it had been abandoned by the U.S. and Filipinos a decade before. As they approached, the Megafortress used its sensors—in this case its radar and GPS—to verify the preloaded image, confirming that there was an air base there. Mack could proceed in as if the airfield were broadcasting a set of guidance signals the same way a commercial airport system would show an airliner how to land in inclement weather.

Almost. Mack was not only landing completely in the dark, but there was no way to know whether someone with an antiaircraft cannon was waiting on the nearby hillsides.

“Landing gear down,” confirmed the copilot as they worked through their routine.

The Megafortress’s wheels hit the end of the slick runway hard as a burst of wind pushed Mack down a split-second sooner than he anticipated. Computer or no, the nearly 350,000 pounds of aircraft, fuel, and men represented a massive amount of energy trying to go in several different directions at once. Mack broke into a serious sweat as he worked to keep the plane moving in a straight line toward the end of the runway, applying brakes and going to reverse thrusters all on cue from the computer. As they came to a stop, Mack spotted a tiny pinprick of light on his left. It blinked twice, the signal they had agreed on. Mack was supposed to kill his lights to confirm that they’d seen the signal.

It seemed a bit superfluous—how many other big jets would be landing on this runway tonight? But he did so, bringing them back on as he found the small apron on the right and turned the aircraft around, trundling back gingerly on the narrow ramp to the point where he had landed.

The rain was now an intermittent drizzle, but it still made it difficult for the IR gear to see anything. Mack switched over to the low-light video, making sure Jalan would be able to monitor what was going on once they were outside.

“Keep the motor runnin’,” he told the copilot, undoing his restraints.

“Yes, Minister,” said Jalan.

Mack pulled off his helmet and survival vest, exchanging them for a com set, flak vest, and small radio. The two soldiers who’d been sitting on the flight deck had already gotten up and were checking their weapons. Brown got up somewhat shakily from the jumpseat at the rear. He’d spent the flight memorizing the instructions from the computer library on how to work the AIM-7s into the Megafortress weapons controller.

Mack went to the weapons locker at the far end of the deck and retrieved his own weapon, an MP5 submachine gun, as well as an attaché case with the cash.

“Let’s do it, boys,” he shouted over the loud hush of the Megafortress’s idling engines. He tossed the attaché case to Brown and started down the ladder.

Two other soldiers had ridden on the Flighthawk deck; the four men fanned out behind Mack as he walked forward along the edge of the concrete, striding toward the edge of the white-yellow halo thrown off by the Megafortress’s landing lights. His heart pounded; he moved his finger away from the trigger of the MP5, aware that his adrenaline level was off the board.

“Yo, assholes, let’s get this show on the road. I don’t have all night;” he yelled to the darkness.

A set of truck lights switched on in the distance. Mack stopped.

“Fan out, men,” he told the soldiers accompanying him. “Don’t shoot the bastards unless I say so. Jalan, what’s coming at us?”

“Pickup truck, two men I think,” said Jalan. “Empty.”

“All right, be cool,” said Mack. He had expected the weapons dealers to show some caution, but was nonetheless disappointed that they were coming forward in a truck that obviously didn’t have the goods.

The pickup stopped about thirty feet from Mack. It left its high beams on; he took two steps to the right, avoiding the worst of the glare.

“Minister Smith?” said a voice that sounded more Hispanic than Filipino.

“In the flesh. Where are my missiles?”

The truck door opened. Mack’s men snapped their weapons up behind him—a nice little flourish, thought Mack—but the man proceeded across the concrete calmly. Something red flared in front of his face: he was smoking a short, monstrously fat cigar.

“Minister Smith,” said the man, sticking out his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. José Cadero, purveyor of goods.”

“Where are mine?” said Mack, not taking the man’s hand.

“Ah, Minister, first we make sure we have the money, then we complete the exchange.”

“No goods, no money,” said Mack.

“Ah, no one is trustworthy these days. But, as you are a new customer, this is understandable.”

He turned around and started to reach into his pocket. Mack slapped his hand on the man’s arm.

Despite his small size, Cadero had a large and hardened bicep; it felt like a boulder in Mack’s grip.

“I just have to give a signal,” said the man mildly.

Mack let go. Cadero took out a small walkie talkie, pressed the transmit button, and said “Sí.” Another truck, this one with a loud, unmuffled engine, started in the distance.

“Cigar’?” Cadero asked.

“Not right now,” said Mack.

Cadero smiled and took a big puff. “I must say, an impressive aircraft.”

“You don’t know how impressive,” said Mack.

“Oh, I have seen reports. It is a superplane. Did you bring Flighthawks?”

“They’re overhead,” lied Mack.

“Impressive,” said Cadero, looking upward. “I understand they fly by remote control and fire thirty-millimeter cannons?”

“Twenty millimeter. Similar to the M61 in F-16s and F-15s”

Cadero smiled. “I can get shells.”

“Let’s focus on the Sparrows and bombs for now.”

An ancient American six-wheeled truck rolled slowly down the runway. It had a flatbed at the back; several boxes were stacked atop of it.

“Six people, all with M16s alongside the truck,” said Jalan.

“Thanks,” said Mack. “Don’t blow them up unless I tell you to”

“Were you talking to me?” asked Cadero.

“Just my crew,” said Mack. “They’re a little jumpy in the plane. You understand. Long flight and all. They want to stretch their trigger fingers.”

Cadero smiled, but seemed somewhat less easy than before. When the truck stopped, Mack walked to it and climbed up with Cadero. The air-to-air missiles were in long wooden crates marked “bicycles” in English, a rather half-hearted attempt at camouflage. Two of Cadero’s men took a box down and opened it for Mack; the long, finned body of an AIM-7E sat in a bed of wood shavings.

Mack jumped down to the ground and took the attaché case from Brown.

“Check them all,” he told him. “Then get them loaded.”

“Yes,” said Cadero. “The bombs are in the smaller boxes at the front,” he added, pointing at the truck bed. “You must be careful of the fuses. As I told Commodore McKenna, we can guarantee the explosives only; the fuses I do not vouch for.”

“She told me,” said Mack.

“She drives a hard bargain,” added Cadero. “But she said you would perhaps be interested in future purchases?”

“We definitely would,” said Mack. “Better air-to-air missiles, air-to-ground—”

“Better air-to-air? Than the AIM-7? Very difficult,” said Cadero.

“Aw, come on, you can’t steal AMRAAMs?”

Cadero became indignant. “These weapons were not stolen. They were purchased.”

“Not a problem,” said Mack.

“That is for me?” asked Cadero.

Mack handed the attaché case over. Cadero turned without opening it.

“Not so fast,” said Mack. “You don’t leave until I’m sure those weapons work.”

“But how will you be sure?”

“I’m going to fire one from the air.”

“But that could take hours”

“Only ninety minutes if Brown here does everything I’ve told him to do. Right, Brown?”

“Ninety minutes, Minister.”

“Come on. You can sit on the flightdeck. It’ll be the thrill of a lifetime.”

“Well, thank you, but—”

“If you don’t, my people in the plane will kill you all. Which seems kind of a rotten way to start a business relationship.”

Cadero took a puff from his cigar. Mack realized they were both acting; the question was, who was better?

“It is an impressive aircraft,” said Cadero finally. “And perhaps if I see it up close I will be able to make more recommendations for sales.”

“That would be welcome,” said Mack.

“But your man—he knows how to arm the missiles and arrange for them to be fired?”

“You better hope he does,” Mack told the Filipino. “Because if he doesn’t, you’re going out the hatch.”

Brunei
0600

McKenna gunned the Dragonfly off the runway, stowing her landing gear and climbing up over the Pacific. The Brunei navy had lost its two crown jewels overnight—a pair of brand new patrol ships purchased from the Russians through Ivana. The ships could only have been sunk by a missile attack, which meant the Malaysians had to be involved, but the reports were very confusing. The Brunei government was in deep disarray, several of its ministers still refusing to admit that the Islamic fundamentalist guerillas had declared total war on them.

Her wingman, Captain Seyed, checked in as she crossed over the water. Both planes were carrying bombs as well as full loads for the minigun.

“Dragon One acknowledges,” she told him. “We’ll go out toward the ships as planned, then circle back”

“Roger that,” said the wingman. While Seyed’s flying skills were as yet unrefined, the pilot had a gung-ho grin and a forward-leaning gait—no substitute for experience or ability, she realized, but positive attributes nonetheless.

The charred hull of one of the patrol ships floated on its side a few miles away, surrounded by small boats that were continuing to search for survivors. The ship carried a complement of sixty men; according to the morning brief, thirteen had been recovered.

Exactly none had been rescued from the other craft, which was somewhere beneath the oil slick further north. A set of oil derricks sat to the west, lonesome and uneasy sentries.

“Dragon One, this is AF Control,” said the ground controller back at their war room.

“Dragon One acknowledges, AF Control,” said McKenna. “Do you have information for me?”

“We have an urgent request—the palace is under attack,” said the controller.

“The palace?”

“Police units are responding.”

“Get a forward-air-controller over there on the double,” McKenna told him, changing course. “Have him contact me directly and tell me what’s going on”

Dreamland
11 October 1997, (local) 1730

Dog stood in the center of the command room, waiting for the feed to come through from the White House situation room. Finally, the screen blinked, and Jed Barclay’s pimple-studded face appeared.