Armageddon (2 page)

Sahurah was not without a sense of mercy: he would be killed rather than taken.

“What are we doing?” asked Adi, the little one. He handled the Belgian machine-gun they had obtained two months before from their brothers across the border. Despite his small size, Adi had learned to handle the weapon and his body well enough so that he could fire the gun from his hip. This was not easily done; the others and Sahurah himself preferred to fire prone, as their instructor had first taught them.

“We will go ahead with our plan,” said Sahurah. “Tell the others be ready.”

THE WATER FELT LIKE A MINERAL BATH, BALMY AND THICK against her skin. Breanna stroked gently across the small bay in front of the beach. The salt water tickled her cheeks, and the sun felt good on her back and shoulders. She took a few strokes parallel to the beach and looked back at Zen, who despite being crippled was a strong swimmer.

“Are you coming in or not?” Breanna yelled.

“Later,” he said.

“Oh come on in!” she yelled. “The water is fantastic.”

“I’ll be in,” he said, sipping his beer.

The shoreline was crescent-shaped and slightly off-center to the east, bordered on both sides by strips of jungle. To the west, a pile of rocks formed a small mini-peninsula about a hundred and fifty yards from the mainland. The rocks were just barely above the surface of the water, and they weren’t very wide; there looked to be just about the surface area of a good-sized desk there. Still, it was a destination and Breanna turned and began doing a butterfly stroke toward it, her old high-school swim team warm-up routine popping into her brain.

ZEN DUG THROUGH THE COOLER, SORTING THROUGH THE food they’d taken from the hotel, looking for something that might seem at least vaguely familiar. He took out what seemed to be a roast beef sandwich—meat stuck out from the edges—and then leaned toward the backpack to get a plate. As he did, he caught a glint of something in the trees to his right, well back in the jungle off the beach by fifty or sixty yards.

Zen put down the sandwich and opened the cooler again, pretending to fish for something else while looking surreptitiously into the jungle. He hoped he’d see a curious child, a teenager copping a cigarette or some such thing, looking at the intruders with curiosity. But instead he caught the outline of a short, squat man with a large gun.

Someone sent by the prince to protect them?

Zen closed the cooler. Sliding his arm through the strap of the backpack, he sidled to the edge of the blanket, estimating the distance to the water.

Twenty feet.

They didn’t have a radio or cell phone. The Brunei air force was so ill-equipped it barely had enough survival radios for its flight crews; American cell phones didn’t work here. And besides, this place was paradise—nothing ever went wrong here.

Breanna was about thirty yards out, stroking steadily for a little jetty or rock island at the edge of the cove.

“How’s the water?” he shouted. Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Maybe I will come in. What the hell. Might as well have a quick swim before lunch.”

He twisted around on his elbow, turning to drag himself toward the water.

If he’d had his legs, Zen thought to himself, he’d have confronted the son of a bitch beyond the trees, gun or no gun. But he didn’t have his legs, and the worst thing he could do now was let the bastard know he saw him. He went slowly toward the water, lumbering like a turtle.

As he reached the water line, something crashed through the brush above. A strong shove brought Zen to the edge of the surf; a second got him into six inches of water.

On his third push he felt his body start to float. Salt water stung his face, pricking at his nostrils.

Something rippled near him. He heaved his body forward and dove beneath the waves.

AS BREANNA WATCHED FROM THE WATER, THE BRUSH BEHIND the beach opened like a curtain. Three men came out from the trees, and then a fourth. Two had rifles.

Zen was at the water—Zen was in the water.

They were going to fire at him.

“No!” she shouted. “No!”

SAHURAH NIU GRABBED THE TALL ONE’S ARM AS HE FIRED.

“Wait,” he told Abdul, first in his own Malaysian, then in Abdul’s native Arabic. “Don’t waste your bullets while he’s in the water.”

“He’ll get away.”

“This will not be so. He is a cripple.” Sahurah Niu repeated his command not to fire so the others could hear. “Wait,” he added, pointing to the horizon. “The boat is coming. Do you see it?”

ZEN PUSHED HIS HEAD UP FOR A QUICK BREATH, THEN DOVE back down, stroking toward Breanna. The world had narrowed to a tiny funnel in front of him. He could see rocks on the bottom of the ocean, twenty or more feet below as he pushed downward.

Where was his wife? He pulled his body in the direction of the rocks she’d been heading for. In the back of his mind he heard himself yelling at his body, as if they were two separate people, coach and athlete:

You’ve gone further and faster than this in rehab. Push, damn it, push.

The pressure in his lungs grew and finally he came up for a gulp of air. Bree was a few yards away.

“The rocks!” he told her. “That island on my left!” She hesitated.

“The rocks:’ he repeated.

“What’s going on? Who are they?”

“Come on.” He took hold of her, pushed her down under the water, then took a stroke away. When he was sure she was going in the right direction he dove down, following.

They reached it at the same time. The rock furthest from shore was shaped like a giant turtle shell and tottered at the top of a deep pile. Zen pushed around to the other side, opening the backpack as he did. He wedged his stomach against the side of the rock, balancing as he pulled the Ziploc bag with his service pistol out from the bottom of the knapsack.

“What the hell is going on?” Breanna asked.

“Trouble in paradise,” said Zen. He heard the sound of a motorboat. Turning, he saw a black triangle approaching from the eastern horizon.

“You’re going to have to go for help,” he told her.

“I’m not leaving you”

“You have to,” Zen told her. “Swim down the beach line to the spot where those houses we passed were. They can’t be more than a half-mile.”

“God, Jeff, it’ll take me forever to swim a half-mile. They’ll get you.”

“Get going then.”

“Come with me.”

“If we both go, they’ll just follow in the boat. Besides, I can’t get ashore.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Just fuckin’ go, Bree. Now!” He pushed her away awkwardly, holding the pistol, still in its plastic bag, up out of the water.

The look she gave him wounded him as badly as any bullet, but she ducked down beneath the water, stroking away. Zen pulled himself up against the rock, waiting to see what the men on the shore would do next.

SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND TO HIS FOREHEAD, SHADING HIS eyes. The two tourists were huddled at the edge of the cove, foolishly thinking it would protect them.

They had rehearsed this. The next steps were easy.

“Abdul, go through the trees and then to the first rock. Do not go into the water.” It was necessary to tell the Yemen this because he was a very simple man. “When you see that we have them, come back and meet Fallah at the edge of the beach, there”

Sahurah pointed to the eastern edge of the protected area. “Fallah, you will guard that side, in case they attempt to swim away. You may shoot them, but only if they are more than ten meters from us. Ten meters, you understand?”

“Of course.”

Adi looked at him expectantly. The motorboat was now approaching, moving toward the beach at a good clip, precisely as planned.

“You and I will go in the boat,” Sahurah told the short one. “We will have to wade. Make sure the weapon does not get wet. If they do not come easily we will need it.”

BREANNA PULLED THROUGH THE WATER, PROPELLED BY HER fury. She was angry at Zen for sending her away, angrier still at whomever it was who was trying to kidnap or rob them.

Brunei was a paradise; how could this happen here?

The houses they had seen were no more than a mile away: 1,600 meters. One of her events in high school.

She’d never finished higher than third in it.

Breanna continued her stroke, falling into the rhythm, willing away everything, even her anger, as she plunged through the water.

*   *   *

ZEN WATCHED AS THE BOAT CUT ITS ENGINES AND DRIFTED toward the shore. The thugs on the beach had rolled up their pants and started to wade out. One of them had a largish rifle, possibly a machine-gun like the M249 or Belgium Minimi, a squad-level weapon that fired 5.56-millimeter ammunition from magazines or belts, which could be held in a plastic box-like container clipped beneath the chamber area just ahead of the trigger.

They moved almost lackadaisically, obviously not seeing him as much of a threat. More than likely they didn’t know he had a gun.

The closer they got, the better his chances at hitting them with the pistol. On the other hand, the closer they got, the more difficult it would be to swim away.

But that wasn’t an option. They had a boat. He’d never outswim it in the open water. Nor would there be much chance of surprising them from the sea.

His goal wasn’t to escape. It was to distract them long enough that Breanna could escape. He would let them get close, then take out as many of them as possible. He’d target the man with the machine-gun first.

SAHURAH PUT HIS HAND DOWN ON THE GUNWALE OF THE speedboat as it came next to him in the water, trying to steady it before he pulled himself over the side. His ancestors had been fishermen, but Sahurah himself disliked boats; no matter how big, they seemed flimsy and unprotected against the awful power of the sea.

The two men in the boat looked at him with puzzled expressions, but did not speak. Unlike the others, the men who had been selected from the boat were Indonesians with a limited command of Malaysian and no knowledge of Arabic; he had to use English so they would understand.

“There has been a change in plans,” he told them, grabbing onto the back of one of the seats. “The people we have come for are there.”

He pointed to the rock. One of the tourists was treading water next to it; the other must have been hiding behind him.

“There?” asked the man near the wheel of the boat.

“Yes,” said Sahurah. “Take us there.”

He took the machine-gun from Adi’s hands, cradling it against his shirt. While it was heavier than the AK47 he had first learned to shoot as a boy, it was surprisingly small for a gun that could fire so rapidly and with so much effect. Sahurah had only a pistol himself, strapped in a holster beneath his shirt.

Adi took the gun back greedily as soon as he was in the boat.

“We will not shoot them unless it is necessary,” Sahurah reminded him.

Adi frowned, but then set himself against the side of the boat in a squat, holding the weapon’s barrel upward and protecting it from the spray as they turned and started toward the rock. The helmsman brought the boat around in an arc, circling around from the west.

The man at the wheel cut the engine when they were twenty meters from the rock. Sahurah reached to his shirt for his gun; he would fire a shot and then tell the tourists to surrender. He would use sweet words to make the idiots believe he meant no harm. The Westerners were, without exception, cowards, eager to believe whatever they were told.

Adi tensed beside him. Sahurah knew he was about to fire. He turned to stop him, but it was too late: the gun roared. Sahurah turned and saw Adi falling backward as the machine-gun fired—he thought the little man had been pushed back by its recoil and tried to grab him, but both Adi and the gun fell off into the water. Stunned, Sahurah reached for him when he felt something punch against him, a stone that tore into his rib. He grabbed for his weapon and found himself in the bottom of the boat, finally realizing that the man on the rocks had a gun.

ZEN’S FIRST SHOT MISSED, BUT HIS SECOND AND THIRD caught the man with the machine-gun in the head. He fired three more shots; at least one struck the man next to the gunman. The boat jerked to the left and roared away out to sea.

Zen lost his grip on the rock as the wake swelled up. He couldn’t keep the gun above the water, let alone himself—he slid down and then pushed up with his left hand, clambering up on top of the rock.

The boat was headed off. Thank God, he thought to himself. Thank God.

Something ricocheted against one of the rocks about thirty feet from him. Zen threw himself into the waves, still clutching the pistol. He pushed around to the seaward side of the rock then surfaced.

There was a man on shore about fifty yards away with an AK47. Zen went down beneath the waves as the man aimed and fired again. The rocks would make it almost impossible for the gunman to hit him unless he came out on the isthmus. A second gunman stood near the brush on the eastern end of the beach; Zen paddled to his right, finding a spot where he couldn’t be seen from that angle. He was safe, at least for a while.

Then he heard the motor of the speed boat revving in the distance. They were coming back.

WHEN BREANNA SAW THE OBJECT IN THE DISTANCE, SHE thought at first it was a large crocodile. She stopped mid-stroke, frozen by fear.

Then she saw that it was bobbing gently and thought it must be a raft. She started toward it, and in only a few strokes realized it was part of a dock that had been abandoned ages ago and now sat forlornly in the water. Abandoned or not, it was the first sign of civilization she had seen since setting out and she swam with all her energy, kicking and flailing so ferociously that she reached it in only a few seconds. She pulled herself against it to rest. As she did, she saw a small skiff maybe seventy-five yards away, the sort of small boat a fisherman might use to troll a quiet lagoon on a hazy afternoon. An old American-made Evinrude motor, its logo faded, sat at the stern. Breanna threw herself forward, stroking overhand in a sprint to the boat. She got to the side and pulled herself up.