Armageddon
Another smile. Udara rose. He took a few steps away from his desk, filling the room with pompous swagger. ‘The messenger is here?’
‘He is.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I do not know.’
‘The secretary said he was a child.’
‘He is young, but not that young. I would say in his twenties. With these fanatics, it is difficult to say sometimes.’
‘Does he have information about the connection to Afghanistan?’
‘I thought it best not to interrogate him without your authority,’ said Dazhou, who in truth was not in the least interested in the Islamic crazies and their network of madmen. He wanted only to eliminate the bastard sultan of Brunei, whose family had seized his ancestors’ property two generations ago, casting them into poverty. At long last, the wrong would be avenged.
‘If we give the terrorists Brunei, how long do you think they will be satisfied?’ the general asked.
‘I do not think it would be long,’ said Dazhou. ‘And it is irrelevant.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the general. ‘Quite irrelevant.’
Whether the terrorists would be satisfied with controlling Brunei or not, the Malaysian government would not allow the terrorists to control their neighbor for very long. On the contrary – one of the attractions of the plan was that it would allow them not only to crush the terrorists and seize oil-rich Brunei, but to receive ASEAN backing to do so. Once the sultan was kicked out and the terrorists in control, the Malaysian military would turn on its allies of convenience. Dazhou had already drawn up plans to do so.
But those operations were in the future. For now, they had to concentrate on Brunei.
Udara went back to his desk and picked up the phone. ‘Have our visitor fetched from the room and brought to me,’ he told his assistant.
Sahurah sat on the floor of the empty room, trying to keep his mind ready. Again and again it drifted. He saw the girl he had had in Beaufort, the other in Sandakan. Beautiful, beautiful girls – temptations from the time before his commitment, sins, and yet he couldn’t banish them.
He owed the true God his complete attention, especially now, especially here on this mission. He should see himself as God’s trusted messenger – for as the imam’s emissary what else was he? And yet the impure thoughts haunted him, hungry ghosts clawing to be fed. The flesh was a terrible chain, an awesome torment. He would be better to be rid of it, gone to paradise.
He was a coward, a coward and a failure. That was the lesson of the miscarried plans on the beach. He should have shot the infidel devils the moment he saw them, rather than hesitating.
Sahurah was not exactly sure where on Borneo he had been taken. The men who rode with him in the jeep had blindfolded him three separate times, including the last hour. He guessed he was on the northern part of the island, in the Malaysian region known as Sabah, but in truth he could have been in the south or in Indonesian territory as well. He thought he had detected the scent of seawater on the breeze as he was led from the Jeep, but it had been fleeting.
A soldier opened the door and nodded at him. Sahurah got up and followed him down the hallway. They went up two flights of carpeted stairs, past walls made of polished stone with elaborate inlays. The walls had once been lined with sculpture, but the niches were now bare.
The soldier stopped and turned in front of a wide doorway lined with an elaborate molding. Inside, Sahurah found a young man at the desk. He gave Sahurah a disapproving frown, then picked up his phone.
‘Go,’ the man at the desk told him in Malaysian. ‘And be quick about it.’
Sahurah gathered his dignity and walked into the room at his most deliberate pace. He was a messenger and a representative, not to be treated without respect.
Dazhou was inside, sitting in a simple wooden chair. Behind the desk was a short, skinny man in a military uniform. He was nearly bald, his face the red color of ruby glistening in the sun. Sahurah believed that the man was either the army general who commanded Malaysian forces on Borneo, or one of his immediate underlings. He had seen the pictures some time ago and couldn’t remember precisely which one he was. He stared at the man now, trying to memorize his features so he could describe them later.
‘You have been sent?’ said the officer.
‘I have been sent.’
‘And?’
‘I was told to come,’ said Sahurah.
‘That’s all?’
‘Perhaps you should begin by paying your respects to the general,’ said Dazhou from the side.
Sahurah bowed his head. ‘I am not here on my own, or I would offer profound apologies.’ The words came slowly at first, but as he found the formula they began to flow. ‘I am not worthy of the people who have sent me. They, however, are your equals, and should be treated with the respect due. As I am their representative, then I must also be accorded respect.’
‘Please, little puppy, don’t lecture me,’ said the general.
He glared at Sahurah. The general’s hostility stiffened Sahurah’s resolve – he was here not on his own but as the representative of his imam, of men who had the word of the Prophet deep in their soul and could pass it to others. He would not disgrace them.
‘I am not here on my own,’ repeated Sahurah.
Dazhou found the Muslim madman’s impertinence rather amusing, though of course he did not laugh in front of Udara. The terrorist was showing commendable backbone. Of course, there was always the danger that would provoke Udara into having him bound and taken to the basement; whatever amusements that provided, it would set back their plans several years, if not derail them completely. And so he decided finally to interrupt and move things to their conclusions.
‘No one is insulting your masters,’ said Dazhou. ‘The fact that you were brought into the general’s presence rather than being shot on the street – as any rebel is apt to be – proves that the general holds them in very high esteem.’
Dazhou glanced over at Udara. The general’s cheeks were a shade of bright red, and beads of perspiration were now arranged in a row on his forehead. Dazhou decided to proceed quickly.
‘Were you told to say anything?’ he asked the messenger.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then your master understands the gravity of the situation, and the generous concessions that the general has made to him.’
Dazhou turned and once more looked at Udara. For a moment, he feared all was lost, and decided he would have his revenge against Udara as well as the terrorist. But then the general spoke very calmly.
‘Tell him to proceed on the third day after your arrival,’ he told Sahurah. ‘The third day. Do you understand?’
The messenger might have been insulted – Dazhou surely would have been had the tone been used toward him – but all he did was bow his head.
‘Very good,’ said Udara, addressing Dazhou. ‘Let us have some lunch.’
Though he had not planned to stay, Dazhou thought it wise to agree.
Brunei, Office of the Defense Ministry 1100
Mack fought hard to control his temper, knowing from experience that displaying any emotion would only bring smiles to the lips of the others in the room. To a man, the other ministers hated him and would seize on any excuse to stab him in the back somehow.
There were fourteen different ministers and ‘realm advisors’ here, along with members of their staffs, crowded into a conference room that might make a good-sized closet back home. The air-conditioning didn’t work very well, and more than one of the gray faces around the table looked as if it were about to nod off into oblivion. The chief of staff – officially the sultan’s personal counselor for matters of defense – sat at the head of the table, eyes gazing at the ceiling fan. One of the navy ministers was explaining, for the third time, how it was impossible for the ship that sank to have been attacked by a ship.
The minister was speaking in Malaysian. A translator sat behind Mack, whispering the words in English. Everyone in the room could speak English perfectly; Mack suspected that they conducted the meetings in Malaysian simply to emphasize that he was an outsider.
When the navy minister stopped speaking, Mack put up his finger, though he knew from experience that he would not be recognized. Sure enough, the floor went to one of the army people, who began explaining why the Sukhois Mack had encountered did not exist.
That was it. ‘I’ve had enough,’ said Mack, standing up. ‘Enough.’
The translator looked at him, awe-struck. He thought he heard snickers as he walked out the door, but didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking back.
Prince bin Awg was somewhat more sympathetic than the ministers, or at least polite.
‘The Sukhois have to be dealt with,’ Mack told him over lunch at the prince’s palace a few miles from the capital. ‘It’s possible that they attacked the ship.’
‘I think a bomb planted aboard remains the most likely possibility,’ said the prince. ‘It would account for the total destruction. And your aircraft did not detect the attack.’
Mack couldn’t argue with that. It was possible that his crew, only rudimentarily trained, had missed it. But given the course and location of the aircraft when they were detected, it seemed to him unlikely that they were responsible for the attack. But perhaps they were part of a larger attack package, or a reconnaissance flight. In any event, they were still a threat.
‘The question in my mind,’ said Mack, ‘is why did Malaysia bring them onto the island secretly? What are they up to? How are the planes equipped?’
‘Very good questions,’ said the prince. ‘But you are assuming they are Malaysian. If so, where would they have flown from? I have checked with our sources myself – there are no jet fighters at any of the bases on the island.’
‘I think they built a strip near Kalabakan, as part of a highway,’ said Mack, ‘I want to fly over it and find out.’
‘Kalabakan?’
‘That’s my theory,’ said Mack. He’d decided it was best not to share the source of his information unless absolutely necessary – the back door might come in handy in the future.
‘Flying that far over Malaysian territory – it’s very far. It may be seen as provocative,’ said bin Awg.
‘I’ll take the Megafortress,’ said Mack. ‘They won’t see us.’
‘I don’t know, Mack. I will have to talk to the sultan personally.’
‘Okay,’ said Mack. ‘When?’
‘Tonight. Or perhaps in the morning. The timing needs to be right.’
‘Look, we have to deal with this, and we have to deal with it now,’ said Mack. ‘Even if they didn’t sink that ship, why are they sneaking interceptors onto the island?’
‘Perhaps they see the Megafortress as provocative,’ offered bin Awg.
Before Mack could respond, the prince raised his hand and signaled to the servant at the far end of the room. The man came over with two bottles of European mineral water, refilling their glasses.
‘The Sukhois were older models,’ said Mack. ‘They may have been purchased from Ivana Keptrova.’
‘No,’ said bin Awg.
‘No?’ said Mack, surprised by how quickly he had responded.
‘I asked her, and she gave me her word of honor.’
An arms dealer who gave her word of honor – Mack couldn’t decide whether that was quaint or naive. Ivana was a semi-official representative of the Russian government – she claimed to work for the Kremlin but seemed to be under no one’s direct control – and had arranged for several sales of naval equipment to Brunei. She’d also helped bin Awg buy old Cold War hardware and parts. McKenna, who’d worked for her, thought it unlikely she had supplied the Sukhois, but Mack refused to rule it out.
‘Maybe we can use this with Washington to get the F-15s,’ he said. ‘Their main argument was that there was no threat, right? Well, with a couple of Su-27s next door, you can shoot that argument down right away.’
‘The F-15s are going to be denied,’ said bin Awg.
Mack felt as if two of the legs of his chair had just been sawed off.
‘We have heard unofficially,’ added the prince. ‘The sultan is rethinking our arrangements.’
‘Totally denied?’ asked Mack.
‘We may be able to get F/A-18s. But now there are questions about the fiscal outlay.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mack.
‘They are very expensive.’
‘Are you saying we’re not adding aircraft?’
‘Oh, no, no, no, Mr Minister. I’m not saying that at all. We of course are adding aircraft. Of course. Two more Megafortresses, some interceptors as well, as soon as it can be arranged. But the F/A-18s are not free, and the air force requires a great deal. I’m sure you agree.’
‘We need planes.’
‘Yes,’ said bin Awg. ‘We will get them. Eventually.’
‘Eventually better be pretty soon,’ said Mack.
‘Time moves more slowly in Brunei than in America, Mack. You must learn to relax.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Mack, picking at his lunch.
There were more problems to deal with when Mack got back to his office in the capital: the maintenance section had used its last spare part for the A-37B radios; the next one that broke would be out of action until replacement parts arrived in six to eight weeks.
‘You can’t just cannibalize them?’ Mack asked Brown, the officer in charge of the aircraft. ‘We have four that are stuck in the hangars permanently.’
‘We already have,’ said Brown.
‘What parts are you talking about?’ asked McKenna, who’d been standing near the door to Mack’s office waiting to come in to see him.
Brown explained, adding that he had been working on getting the parts ordered for weeks. McKenna waved her hand.
‘There’s a shop in Manila where you can get the radios if you want. Frankly, you can upgrade the whole avionics suite for just about the same price,’ she said.
Brown stammered something about protocols. McKenna shrugged.
‘You have anything else, Brown?’ Mack asked.
He shook his head.
‘Good. We get the jet fuel?’
‘Working on it.’
‘Well, work harder,’ said Mack.
Brown nodded, apologized, then left.
‘Why don’t we just buy off the civilian suppliers?’ asked McKenna.
‘Damned if I know,’ confessed Mack. ‘There’s a whole bureaucracy dedicated to making sure I can’t get what I need.’
‘The civilian suppliers are cheaper than the fuel Brown’s been getting.’
‘How do you know?’
She smiled. ‘It’s coming through the government, right?’
‘Yeah, we have some sort of contract or something.’
‘You’re pretty naive, Mack.’
‘What do you mean?’
McKenna explained that certain citizens have interests in certain businesses, which the old administration of the air force had been involved with.
‘Not crooked, exactly,’ she said. ‘Just a lot of back-slapping.’
‘So they want to be paid off now, is that it?’ Mack asked.
McKenna laughed. ‘What they want is for you to leave. You’re an outsider, Mack. They want you out of here. They’ll do what they can to make you look bad.’
Mack felt his face getting hot. ‘That’s a pretty dumb game. Dangerous.’
McKenna shrugged. ‘You can take care of most of them.’
‘How?’
‘Cut their balls off.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s easier than you think,’ she said. She pulled up a chair.
‘What do I do?’
‘Find another supplier. Then suddenly they’ll have plenty of fuel for sale.’
‘You know of one?’
‘I might be able to find some fuel, if you’re not too particular about where it comes from.’
‘All I’m particular about is if it works.’
‘It’ll work.’
‘That why you came in?’
‘Actually, no. I had an idea on how to flush those Sukhois out, if they’re there.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Requires practicing some air-to-air refueling between the Dragonflies and EB-52.’
‘Forget it, then. None of these guys are good enough to fly an A-37 Dragonfly behind the Megafortress. It kicks off some very wicked wind shears. It took a while for the computers to figure out how to do it with a Flighthawk.’
‘I could do it. If someone who knew what he was doing was flying the Megafortress.’
Mack listened as she detailed the plan. It involved a fly-around of the island by a Megafortress and two escorts two or three days in a row to establish a basic pattern. On the third or fourth day, one of the A-37Bs would pretend to have an air emergency. As it recovered, it would fly close enough to the airstrip to get a good look at it. An aerial reconnaissance pod under one of the wings would snap some pictures and they’d be set.
‘That airstrip is eighteen miles inland,’ said Mack. ‘You’re talking about overflying their territorial waters and then running in there – I don’t know. Those planes come up, you’re cooked.’
‘If you can handle them, I can.’
‘Too risky.’
‘Well, if you’re too chicken – ’
‘I’m not too chicken,’ snapped Mack. Then he smiled at her, and laughed at himself.
A little.
‘Don’t do that, McKenna,’ he told her. ‘Don’t try to out-macho me. Okay? Just be straight. No head games. You don’t need them.’
She shrugged, not particularly remorseful.
‘I’ll take it under advisement,’ said Mack. ‘That it?’
‘Breanna Stockard tells me she goes home Tuesday. What are the odds of me doing some time in the pilot’s seat before she leaves?’
‘Go for it.’
McKenna smiled, and got up.
‘There’s a tanker sailing to the Philippines with some jet fuel that’s supposed to be sold to a private investor there,’ said McKenna. ‘I may be able to find a phone number so you could put in a counter offer.’
‘That private investor wouldn’t be your ex-boss, Ivana Keptrova, would it?’
McKenna shrugged. She might not be much to look at, Mack thought, but she was one hell of an operator.
Just the sort of person he needed around here.
‘Do it,’ said Mack. ‘Buy it.’
‘How much?’
‘The whole thing. The ship if you have to. There’s this guy named Chia in the Finance Ministry – ’
‘That’s Gia,’ said McKenna. ‘Gee-uh.’
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘Yeah. He has this line of credit for us, operating money we can spend, but getting him on the phone is next to impossible so you have to go over there and see him in his office, buttonhole him, you know what I mean? And then on our side there’s Braduski – ’
‘Bradushi. Like sushi. He’s the guy who cuts the checks for you. I had to talk to him to get paid. He has a mother who needs an operation in Manila.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was on the phone when I came into his office,’ said McKenna.
‘Well, we can help him, right?’ said Mack, catching on. ‘We make sure we fly her over there, he makes sure we have our fuel.’
She just smiled.
‘You just got yourself a raise and a promotion, McKenna,’ said Mack. ‘Air Commodore McKenna, second in command.’
She started to laugh.
‘Hey, if I’m a minister, second in command can be a commodore,’ he told her. ‘Play your cards right and you’ll be “Air Marshal” at the end of the week. Take that office with the windows down the hall. You want a secretary? Take one of mine. The pretty one.’
‘No way. She can’t type and she can’t figure out the phone, let alone the computer. I want somebody who can do some work.’
‘How do you know she can’t type?’
McKenna rolled her eyes. ‘If I want something good to look at, I’ll get one of those buff boys pulling security in front of the office.’
‘They’re eighteen years old,’ said Mack.
‘And?’
‘Kick butt, Commodore.’
‘I intend to,’ she said, marching out.
With McKenna gone and his biggest logistical problem on its way to being solved, Mack began tackling the paperwork, signing his name with abandon. He was about a quarter of the way through the pile when the phone rang. Mack picked up the line quickly, only to find himself speaking to a woman with a thick Russian accent.
‘Mr Minister Smith, good afternoon; I am so glad to have this opportunity to speak to you,’ said the woman.
‘I didn’t quite catch your name,’ said Mack.
‘Ivana Keptrova. You have heard of me? I work with friends in the president’s office. The Russian president,’ she added.
‘Just the person I wanted to speak to,’ said Mack.
‘And I you. It appears you have hired an employee of mine.’
‘Problem?’
‘Not a problem perhaps,’ said Ivana. ‘An opportunity maybe. But I would watch her.’
‘Oh, I intend on it. Why are you calling?’
‘You are in the market for aircraft, are you not?’
‘I’m looking for a squadron of F-15s,’ said Mack. ‘You have any?’
‘You’re making fun. But if you were more serious, we could speak of the Sukhoi, a very excellent plane,’ she said. ‘With some adjustments here and there, they are twice the plane the Eagle is.’
‘Right,’ said Mack.
‘I can arrange a demonstration.’
‘I’ve flown Sukhois,’ said Mack.
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