Armageddon

Chapter 1

Breanna stockard tossed her backpack to the ground, put her hands on her hips, and took a deep breath. The Pacific Ocean spread out before her, a blanket of azure silk. A few white clouds wandered casually in the distance, drifting across the sky like a pair of vacationers easing across a solitary beach. Civilization might lay in the distance-there were oil derricks somewhere offshore, and merchant ships did a brisk trade at the nearby harbor — but from where she stood Breanna had no hint that she and her husband Jeff “Zen” Stockard weren’t the only people in the world.

This is what God looks at everyday, she thought to herself. Paradise.

Breanna took another deep breath. A month ago, she had found herself stranded in the Pacific during a fierce storm, tossed back and forth in a tiny life raft. It seemed impossible that this was the same ocean now.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that hadn’t even happened. Ten days here in the wonderful paradise of Brunei — helping train pilots to fly the EB-52 Megafortress “leased” to the kingdom as part of an eventual three-plane arms deal — had purged her of all unhappy memories.

One more week and it might even be impossible to have an unpleasant thought ever again.

Zen had surprised her yesterday by turning up for a weekend visit. They had twenty-four more hours together before he had to return to Dreamland, their base back in the States.

Breanna smoothed out the blanket she’d borrowed from the hotel and spread it down on the white sand next to the path. She dropped her bag and Zen’s small backpack and turned to go back up the path.

“I’ll bring down lunch, then I’m going to take a swim before I eat,” she told her husband, who was negotiating the bumps down from the parking area in his wheelchair.

“Yup,” said Zen.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” she said.

“Yup.”

“Jet lag getting to you?”

“I’m fine.”

She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then trotted up the hill for the rest of their things.

Before the accident that had cost him the use of his legs, Zen had considered going to the beach a useless waste of time and a dreadful bore. In his list of things to do, it ranked right above lying spread-eagle on Interstate 15 at rush hour.

Now it ranked somewhat lower.

He had tried talking Breanna out of the idea back at the hotel, when Prince bin Awg had called to say he and his family couldn’t join them on the planned picnic. His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg was nephew of the sultan, a royal prince and government minister; he owned the beach and had insisted they use it. Zen liked bin Awg, the country’s unofficial patron of the Air Force — he had an enviable collection of Cold War aircraft and could talk about them entertainingly for hours and hours. Like many Bruneians, he was also generous to a fault. But his baby daughter was sick and he had been called away on government business. Zen loved Breanna and wanted to spend as much time as he could with her; he just would have preferred somewhere other than a beach.

A Lakers game, maybe.

It wasn’t so much the fact that beaches and wheelchairs didn’t go together. Truth be told, wheelchairs didn’t really fit smoothly anywhere. Much of everyday life in the A-B world — as in “able-bodied,” a term not used by the handicapped without at least a touch of sarcasm — was a succession of physical barriers and dignity-stealing obstructions. Going to the beach was probably no worse than going to the grocery store. And the fact that this beach was a private, secluded refuge meant there were no people to gawk at the geek in the wheelchair — or worse, take pity on him by “helping.”

No, what bothered him was deeper than that. There just seemed to be no point, existential or otherwise, in lying on your belly and watching water lap against the sand.

“My, but you’re a slowpoke,” said Breanna, returning with their coolers. “Need a push?”

“No,” he said stubbornly, gripping the wheels of his chair and half-sliding, half-rolling off the hard-packed pathway and onto the sand. Surprisingly, the chair wheels sank only about a quarter of an inch, and Zen was able to pull over right next to the blanket. There he started a well-practiced if inelegant lift, arch, and twist routine, sliding himself down to the ground.

“You coming in?” asked Bree, kicking off her shoes.

“Yup” Zen pulled himself up, sitting next to the cooler with the beer. He took out a Tetley’s Draught — an English ale that might be the last vestige of Britain’s influence on Brunei — and popped the top. A satisfying hiss and fizz followed.

“ ‘This can contains a floating widget,’ “ he read from the top of the can. “What do you think a floating widget is, Bree?”

“An excuse to charge two dollars more,” said Breanna, who had complained earlier about the high price of beer. As an Islamic country, Brunei officially frowned on alcohol consumption, and between that and the fact that the beer had to be imported from a good distance, the six-pack Zen had purchased through the hotel concierge had cost over twenty-five dollars, American.

But some things were worth the price.

And others couldn’t be bought for any amount of money: Zen watched as his wife stripped off her jeans and T-shirt, revealing a red one-piece bathing suit that reminded Zen there were some good reasons for going to the beach after all.

“Mmmm,” he said.

“Don’t get fresh.”

“What? I’m talking about the beer.”

He ducked as Breanna tossed her T-shirt at him.

Despair’s black hands took his throat, and Sahurah Niu struggled to breathe.

The prince’s wife and infant daughter had not come to the beach. His informants had been wrong.

Sahurah pushed his fists into his arms, struggling to calm himself. It was of vital importance to remain in control in front of his men.

The commander had made clear that he must complete the mission today. They had discussed the possibility of taking other hostages if necessary; clearly that was his course now.

The two people on the beach were Westerners — Australians, he thought, though Sahurah Niu was not close enough to know for certain. Undoubtedly they were guests of the prince, or they would not have been allowed here on the private beach. They would do.

One was in a wheelchair. A pity.

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.

The boat sat about five or six yards offshore, a line at the stern anchoring her. The shore here was lined with trees; Breanna saw a path at the right side, though it wasn’t clear what was beyond it.

“Hey! Hey!” she yelled. “Help! Help!”

She couldn’t see anyone. Breanna turned to the motor. It was old, possibly dating from at least the 1960s, with part of the top removed. It had a pull rope.

She grabbed the rope and yanked at it. The engine turned itself over but didn’t start.

Breanna stared at the motor, which had been tinkered with and repaired for more than thirty odd years. The motor seemed to be intact, without any fancy electronic gizmos or cutoff switches; even the turn throttle seemed to work. She tried the rope again and this time the engine coughed twice and caught. The propeller growled angrily as Breanna got the hang of the jury-rigged replacement mechanism that set the old outboard properly in the water. The boat jumped and started to move forward; she just barely managed to turn it in time to keep the craft from sailing into the rocky shore. She realized she hadn’t released the anchor — the boat groaned, dragging the rock along. She couldn’t steer and reach the line at the same time; since she was moving forward at a decent pace she didn’t bother pulling it in, concentrating instead on getting her bearings as she sped back to rescue her husband.

Zen pushed himself backward from the rock, ducking down under the water and swimming to the west. He stayed below for as long as he could, the pressure in his lungs building until it became unbearable. As his face hit the air he heard a cacophony of sounds — the motorboat, guns firing, a distant jet. He gulped air and ducked back, pushing again. He didn’t last as long this time. When he surfaced the boat was nearly on top of him. He pushed down and waited, the wake angry but not as close as he feared.

When he resurfaced, the crack of a rifle sent him back underwater with only half a breath.

Where was the infidel bastard? Sahurah leaned against the side of the boat, searching for the tourist in the water. The man had gone beneath the waves somewhere around here; he couldn’t have swum too far away.

Sahurah knew that it was the cripple who was shooting at them. How exactly he knew that — and surely that was not the logical guess — he couldn’t say, but he was sure.

So the moment of pity he had felt on the beach had been a grave mistake. A lesson.

He heard one of his men firing from shore and turned toward the east. A head bobbed and disappeared in the water nearby.

“There,” shouted Sahurah, momentarily using Malaysian instead of English. “There, over there,” he yelled. “Go back. Get the dog. Run him down!”

Breanna stretched forward, trying to grasp the knotted line holding the stone while still steering the boat. She was about three inches too short; finally she leaned her leg against the handle, awkwardly steadying it, and grabbed the rope, pulling it back with her as she once more took control of the motor. The anchor turned out to be a coffee can filled with concrete; she pulled it up over the side and let it roll with a thud into the bottom of the craft.

A boat circled in the distance offshore. Breanna bent down and held on, steadying herself as she made a beeline for it.

Sahurah brought up his pistol to fire. his first three shots missed far to the right. As he shifted to get a sturdier position he felt the pain in his side again; the bullet had only creased the flesh but it flamed nonetheless.

He would have revenge. He aimed again, but as he fired, the boat jerked abruptly to the north.

“What?” demanded Sahurah, turning toward the helm.

The men pointed toward the west. A second boat was coming.

For a long moment, Sahurah hesitated. He felt his anger well inside him. Unquenchable thirst — frustration — rage.

He had failed.

“Get the others,” he said finally. “Get the ones on shore. Quickly.”

THIS TIME THE PRESSURE TO BREATHE WAS SO FIERCE ZEN started to cough as he broke water, his throat rebelling. His body shook with the convulsions and he found himself twisting backward in the water, unsure where he was.

He’d saved Bree, at least, he thought. They might have gotten him but his wife at least was safe.

Zen heard the boat behind him. Surprised that it was there, he pushed his tired arms to turn him in that direction. But instead he slipped beneath the waves, his energy drained.

Breanna saw that the other boat was going in to the beach. She cut the throttle back but even at its low idle setting it still pushed the boat forward. She dared not pull the ignition wire or fiddle with the eccentric controls too much; instead, she put the boat into a circle, taking some of its momentum away before approaching the rock, about two hundred yards away.

She didn’t see Zen.

Did they have him already? Was that why there were going to shore?

“Zen! Zen!”

Something bobbed to the left, about thirty yards away.

“Jeff! Jeff!”

It was him. He-started to swim for the boat, but he was moving in slow motion, not swimming as strongly as he normally did. She maneuvered to the left and right, but couldn’t quite get close enough on the first pass and still didn’t dare to turn off the motor.

“I’ll circle around. Grab on!” she called. “This is as slow as I can go “

Breanna pushed against the throttle switch on the engine, managing to slow the speed a little more but still not entirely cut it as she came around. Zen grabbed the side of the boat, clamping his arms against it like a hobo pulling himself onto the side of a freight car.

“What are you doing?” he yelled as she pushed at the throttle, trying to get it to increase speed gently. “Let me get in for cryin’ out loud,” said Zen, pulling up against the side.

“Wait,” she told him, fighting to keep the boat balanced and moving in the right direction as the engine began churning the water faster.

“They’re going away,” Zen told her. “It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” she repeated, not quite ready to believe it.

Chapter 2

Mack Smith looked at his watch again and shook his head. Everyone in the damn country ran at least a half-hour late.

It was bad enough that his pilots were cavalier about reporting on time, but now even Breanna had caught the bug.

Mack paced in front of the A-37B Dragonfly he was supposed to fly for the night exercise. He was so short of trained pilots that he had to take the plane up himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to — Mack loved to fly the old Cessna, which was similar to the T-37 “Tweet” air force pilots cut their teeth on — but the fact of the matter was, as head of the air force, he should at least have had the option of assigning someone to go in his place, just in case he wanted to party or kick back a bit. He currently had only five other pilots with suitable ratings and training to fly jet aircraft, and he was training them all to handle the Megafortress as well as his four A-37Bs. Besides getting these guys up to speed, he needed to at least triple his stable of jocks before the two other Megafortresses arrived.

Hence the importance of tonight’s session.

Stinking Breanna. Where was she?

Come to think of it, he didn’t spend any time partying anymore. There was just too much to do to get this tin can air force in shape. New planes, pilots, ground people — he had a few kids who could strip a jet engine with their eyes shut and get it back together, but he needed more, more, more.

“Excuse me, Minister.”

Mack turned to find one of his maintenance officers, a friendly but sad-sacked sort named Major Brown, who was descended from a nineteenth century British regent or some such thing.

“You can just call me Mack. You don’t need to use my title,” Mack told him for the hundredth time.

Brown’s attempt at a smile looked more forlorn than his frown.

“We have only a week’s worth of fuel supply left, sir. You asked me to bring it to your attention.”

“Did you put through that requisition or whatever the paperwork was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did we get it?”

“No, sir.” Brown explained that simply forwarding a form into the morass that was the Brunei defensive forces purchasing system was hardly enough to elicit a yawn, let alone needed fuel supplies. Mack had heard some variation of this lecture three times a day since taking this job nearly a month ago.

“I want you to go over there tomorrow and baby-sit the damn request,” said Mack. “We need a ninety-day supply of fuel at a bare minimum.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you have to go. No — bypass the stinking bureaucracy. Go to the central defense ministry office and tell the chief of staff I sent you.”

Brown blanched. Things in the kingdom of Brunei were done by strict protocol. A mere major, or even a general of insufficient breeding, did not talk to the chief of staff, who like most people of importance was related to the sultan.

“All right,” said Mack, recognizing the look. “What do you suggest?”

“If I go to the finance office, perhaps I can get an expeditious result.”

Two weeks ago, Mack would have asked why Brown would have to go to the finance office to get something as simple as a fuel order sent up the line. Now he knew that the explanation would not clarify anything.

“Do your best,” he told Brown. “We’re all set for the exercise, right?”

“An hour ago, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Brown,” said Mack. “Do your best on the fuel thing.”

“Perhaps if you spoke to the chief of staff yourself.”

“I intend on kicking his butt if I ever see it,” said Mack under his breath.

While Mack and Brown had been talking, two other members of Mack’s staff had approached. One was his administrative assistant, Suzanne Souzou, who had a thick wad of folders in her hand. The other was his director of operations, a Brunei of Chinese extraction named Han Chou.

“Miss Souzou first,” said Mack. He smiled at Han, who was offended by the fact that a woman was given priority. “Beauty before brains.”

“You need to sign these,” said his secretary. “The interviews are set up.”

“Which interviews?”

“The contract people to fill your temporary positions?”

“Yeah, okay. Right. Good.”

“You will need to sign these or the men won’t get paid.”

Mack flipped through the folders; it would take him more than an hour to sign them all. He’d tried telling her two weeks ago to sign for him, but that, too, was a major breach of Brunei etiquette.

“All right. I’ll leave them on your desk first thing in the morning. Good night.”

Souzou flashed a big smile before turning and heading back to the car that had brought her. Mack admired her walking style before turning to Han, who bowed stiffly and handed him an envelope.

“Uh, I don’t get it,” said Mack, taking the envelope. Han said nothing.

“This isn’t a resignation, is it?”

Han still refused to speak.

“Yo, Han, my man. My main man — you can’t leave. We’re just getting going. Come on. We’re going places, my friend. Going places.”

It was debatable whether Mack’s attempt at camaraderie would have worked in the States, where someone at least would have understood the expressions he was using. The only effect it had on Han was to confuse him. Mack opened the letter reluctantly.

“You’re really leaving me?”

Han’s English was heavily accented, but Mack got the gist of it. The new regime — Minister Mack — had brought too much change.

Mack waved his hand. “You’re free,” he told him. “Go. Hit the road.”

Han bowed again. Mack simply shook his head. He was now down to four legitimate pilots, plus himself.

Breanna’s SUV appeared at the far end of the road, heading toward him. Mack waited with his hands on his hips, frowning as he saw that Zen was sitting in the front seat beside her. He’d shown up unannounced yesterday, but Breanna had insisted his visit wouldn’t interfere with the training schedule.

“Captain,” he said as she rolled down the window. “We’re running a little late.”

“I’m sorry,” said Breanna. “We were detained.”

“I’ll bet,” he said, interpreting her words as a euphemism for sex.

“We were at the police ministry,” she said. “We tried calling you”

“Police ministry? What’d you do? Get nailed for speeding?”

Mack listened, dumbfounded, as Breanna explained what had happened that afternoon on the beach. It seemed farfetched. People here left their doors unlocked and keys in their cars.

“This for real, Bree?” he asked.

“Bet your ass it was real,” growled Zen from the other side. “Who were these jokers?”

“Police weren’t sure,” said Breanna. “Possibly guerillas from Malaysia trying to kidnap tourists. There are Muslim extremists trying to take over the Malaysian part of the island.”

“Not on that beach. That’s the prince’s beach,” said Mack. “Maybe they missed the sign,” said Zen.

“Maybe they were trying to get the prince,” said Mack. “Police said that was impossible,” said Breanna.

“That’s because they don’t think it’s possible,” said Mack. “They don’t think that way — they don’t think like you and me.”

“Listen, about the exercise tonight, we’re going to have to call it off,” said Breanna. “The State Department wants to interview me.”

“What?” said Mack.

“They asked me to go over to see one of their intelligence people for a debriefing. I told them fine”

“Well, sure, after the exercise.”

Breanna shook her head. “Sorry. We’re already late. And I haven’t had anything to eat, either.”

Mack had enough experience with Breanna to know it was useless to argue. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Fine,” said Breanna.

“Oh wait, I can’t do it tomorrow night. I have some dinner with the prince.”

“Blow it off,” said Zen sardonically.

Mack pretended he didn’t hear. “How about early the next morning, just before dawn? Say four or five?”

“Dawn?”

“Yeah, that would work,” said Mack. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, Bree. You owe me”

“Owe you? How?”

“I got you that beach,” said Mack.

“Oh there’s a debt to be repaid,” said Zen.

“I’ll do it. We’ll set it up tomorrow,” said Breanna.

“Great,” said Mack. “Just great.”

Chapter 3

“Hey, Colonel:’ said Jed Barclay, pulling up in front of the suburban motel where Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian had been waiting. “Sony I’m running a little late.”

“It’s okay,” said Dog, aware that his voice probably suggested the opposite.

“Want to grab a coffee?” asked Barclay.

“I had breakfast”

“Yes, sir.”

Barclay pulled out into the traffic. Though he looked like he belonged in college — if that — Jed was the National Security Council’s assistant director for technology and the right-hand man for national security advisor Philip Freeman. He was the unofficial go-between used by the president and the NSC for directing Dreamland’s “Whiplash” operations, and just about Dog’s only real ally in Washington. The colonel felt bad about snapping at him, but he was in a foul mood; his daughter and son-in-law had been involved in some sort of incident in Brunei, of all places. While they were fine, the call he’d gotten a few hours ago about it had cost him the last sliver of sleep he’d been counting on before this morning’s meeting with the president. Brunei and Washington were exactly twelve hours apart; when it was day there it was night here, and vice versa.

“Hotel okay?” asked Jed.

“Fine. Listen, I didn’t mean to bark at you there. I just don’t want to be late for the meeting.”

“Well, we won’t be,” said Jed. “I got a heads-up. The president is running behind.”

“I thought I was his first appointment.”

“You were. But they slid in some domestic stuff and the chief of staff called last night to slide back the appointment. We’re not on until nine-thirty. And given the way things usually go …”

Dog curled his hands in front of his chest. The president was the president, and you waited for him, not the other way around. And surely there were many important things on his plate.

But this wasn’t a good sign.

“I didn’t have time for breakfast myself,” added Jed.

“Let’s get something then,” said Dog, acceding.

Jed described the restaurant as a “coffee place,” but if that was true, it was the fanciest coffee place Dog had ever been in. A hostess greeted them and escorted them across a thick, plush carpet to a table covered with three layers of thick linens. Dog recognized two senators and one of the aides to the vice president at different tables along the way.

“The NSC’ll pay, don’t worry,” said Jed before Dog opened the thick, leather-bound menu.

That prepared him, somewhat, for the prices. Dog told the waitress he just wanted coffee. She nodded, men turned to Jed. “Feta omelet. Light toast. Right?” she asked.

Jed nodded.

“You come here a lot?” said Dog.

“Uh, Mr. Freeman does. And so, because of that, I do.”

“He’s going to drop in on us?”

“He might,” admitted Jed.

“You might have warned me,” said Dog, finally understanding that Jed’s delays and hunger were part of a prearranged plan.

“I am warning you,” said Jed. He closed his mouth as the waitress approached, not continuing until she left. “Look, the president has already made up his mind on Brunei.”

“Brunei doesn’t need a fleet of fighter jets. Or Megafortresses, for that matter,” said Dog.

“The president isn’t going to reverse the Megafortress decision, Colonel. Not even for you. The two other planes are to go to Brunei as soon as they’re ready.”

“With Flighthawks?”

The Flighthawks, or U/MF-3s, were among Dreamland’s most prized possessions. “U/MF” stood for “unmanned fighters.” The Flighthawks were highly capable interceptors, typically launched from the wings of the Megafortress and used for a variety of tasks, from defending the big plane to attacking ground targets. About the size of a Miata sports car, they could go nearly the speed of sound and could be controlled up to twenty miles from the mother ship.

“That’s still to be decided,” said Jed.

“We have to protect our technology, Jed.”

“I don’t disagree. But it’s not my call.”

“You’re not in favor of any of this, are you? Rewarding their cooperation in dealing with China is one thing, but giving our technology away to countries that don’t need it and have their own agendas—”

“They are allies.”

“For now.”

“It’s not my call,” said Jed. “I think we’ll hold the line on the Flighthawks. And probably the F-15s. But they do have a legitimate need for surveillance aircraft, and for more modern fighters. And they’ll buy from the Russians if not us.”

“Did you try pushing LADS?” asked Dog. “They could buy that system with the money they’ll spend on jet fuel for one Megafortress over the course of a year.”

“I did. State did, too. Very hard”

“That’s what they need. It’s low-cost, and we could work with them. It’d be useful to us as well. Let them keep the one Megafortress for sea patrols, and use LADS to guard the kingdom’s borders.”

“Blimps aren’t sexy,” said Jed. “However much they make sense.”

Dog frowned, but he couldn’t argue. LADS stood for Lighter-than-Air Defensive Surveillance system, and at its heart it was simply a blimp — or more accurately, a network of blimps. Outfitted with millimeter and phased array radar as well as infrared and optical sensors, the small airships could be posted over the ocean and kept on station for weeks for about the cost of a Megafortress sortie. The system was scaleable — in other words, blimps could be added almost indefinitely, increasing the area to be covered without overly taxing the system. (The theoretical limit of inputs for the present system was 164°, far above the practical limitations that would be imposed by the coverage area itself.) The blimps could be pre-positioned to cordon off a patrol area several hundred miles wide, or deployed ahead of a mission team.

While LADS had several Dreamland-style features that made it unique, including technology that made its vehicles nearly invisible to the naked eye, it was only one of a number of lighter-than-air systems being developed by the U.S. military and defense contractors. Airships could handle tasks from cargo transport to geostationary surveillance. Relatively inexpensive and extremely dependable, the old technology had a bright future, except for one thing: blimps weren’t sexy.

“I was thinking I might suggest F/A-18s if we turn down the F-15s,” added Jed. “A package similar to Malaysia’s.”

“It’s still overkill for their needs. What about selling them more A-37s?” asked Dog. “Very versatile and reliable aircraft. Perfect for their needs.”

“They’re pushing hard, and they have friends in Congress,” said Jed. “Assuming we can stop the F-15s and the Flighthawks, do you think F/A-18s are too much?”

“A dozen F/A-18s, along with three Megafortresses, would make them a pretty potent power,” said Dog. “They could threaten Malaysia and Indonesia”

“Malaysia has F/A-18s and MiG-29s already,” said Jed.

“But they’re on the peninsula, more than a thousand miles away. Indonesia’s forces are also too far to threaten Brunei. Besides, they’re all allies.”

“We want a counterbalance to the Chinese, and we have to reward the sultan,” said Jed. “Those are the real issues.”

“That sounds a lot like your boss talking, Jed.”

Jed glanced up, then held his coffee cup out for a refill as the waitress approached. Dog, sensing it was going to be a long morning, slid his over for a refill as well.

“Tecumseh, get in here!”

The walls practically shook with the president’s loud greeting. Dog followed Jed and NSC advisor Freeman into the Oval Office, doing his best to guard against the schoolboy awe he inevitably felt upon meeting the president. He’d met Kevin Martindale twice since he’d been elected, and talked to him on average at least three times a month. But this did nothing to lessen the slightly giddy sensation he felt in the presence of the President of the United States.

Call it a by-product of military training, old-fashioned patriotism, or a side effect of his deep appreciation of the country’s history, but Dog still felt honored — deeply honored — to shake the president’s hand. He even blushed slightly as the president praised him in front of Arthur Chastain, the secretary of defense, and National Security Advisor Freeman.

“What you did in China makes you a hero ten times over,” said President Martindale. “And everyone in the world knows it. A million people are alive today because of you, Tecumseh. We won’t forget it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have some good news. The Pentagon has worked things out with the bean counters. The Megafortress program, the Unmanned Bomber Program, and the airborne laser arrays will all be funded. As will the next generation Flighthawk program.”

“That is good news,” said Dog, who hadn’t expected all of the programs to survive.

“You’ll have to nip and tuck here and there,” added the president, “but Arthur will help you on that. Won’t you, Mr. Secretary?”

“Yes, sir, of course” The defense secretary smiled at him for the first time ever.

“You’re here to tell me Brunei shouldn’t have Megafortresses and F-15s,” said Martindale. “You’re mad about it, and you wanted to talk to me in person before the deal is finalized.”

“Mad would be not the right word, sir,” said Dog.

“But you don’t approve.”

“I just feel that giving Brunei — giving anyone — our technology, is a problem.”

“Let’s stop right there,” said Freeman, the national security advisor. “Because number one, we’re not giving them anything. They’re paying for the privilege. And that payment is going to help us develop the next generation of weapons and aircraft at Dreamland. It’s one reason we can go ahead with your work there.”

“A small reason,” objected Defense Secretary Chastain.

“We’re not giving them our most advanced technology,” said Freeman. “The basic structure of the EB-52 is older than I am.”

“But sir, with respect, that’s like saying the basic structure of a newborn is older than its mother,” said Dog. “The Mega-fortresses have been completely rebuilt. Their wings are different, the fuselage is more streamlined and stealthy, the engines, the control surfaces — a B-52 would never have made it that far into China.”

“The Old Dog made it into Russia,” said President Martindale. Years before Dog had joined Dreamland, a B-52 had helped avert war with the Soviet Union with a daring — and officially unauthorized — mission over the heart of Soviet defenses. Immortalized in the press as “The Flight of the Old Dog,” the incident had been every bit as daring — and suicidal — as Bastian’s over China. Martindale had been a governor then, but it was well known that he admired the people who had pulled off the mission; he’d told Dog he kept a copy of the book detailing their exploits on his reading table upstairs in the White House.

“You have reservations about Brunei?” President Martindale asked Dog. “Can they be trusted?”

“It’s a beautiful country,” said Dog. “But it’s not a democracy”

“Give it time,” said Freeman.

“It’s not just that,” said Dog. “If we give them Mega-fortresses and F-15s, then what do we give the Malaysians and Indonesians? They share that island. What about the Philippines?”

“Those countries haven’t asked for EB-52s,” said the national security advisor.

“They will,” said Dog. “What do we tell them? They’re not as important as Brunei? What if they ask for F-22s?”

“They’re not getting F-22s. No one is,” said the president. “They’re not getting F-15s, either. Not F-15Cs, or F-15Es. But if we don’t give them something, they’ll simply buy from the Russians. The world is becoming more complicated, Colonel. Very much more complicated.”

“I appreciate that. I just don’t want my weapons systems making things worse.”

“Neither do I,” said the president. “We’ll have to work hard to see that they aren’t.”

Chapter 4

In Zen’s opinion, the official Brunei reaction to the incident on the beach was schizophrenic beyond belief. On the one hand, they clearly didn’t consider it, or didn’t want to consider it, as anything but an isolated and freakish incident.

On the other hand, they considered it an insult to the country, which prided itself on being the perfect host. Because of this, the authorities felt obliged to apologize in person, and therefore Breanna and Zen had been invited to breakfast at the Royal House, an exclusive club used only by very high-ranking government officials just outside of town.

Zen might not have minded it except that he was due to catch a flight home at one o’clock, which meant rather than spending the next few hours alone with his wife he had to sit stiffly through a long and formal breakfast. He even had to wear a civilian jacket and tie, purchased specially for him by the State Department liaison, due to some obscure protocol that he didn’t understand.

“Oh, you look handsome. Stop complaining,” said Breanna.

“I’m sorry, but it really is necessary to present the proper image,” said Brenda Kelly, a state department liaison who had been sent over to help smooth the Stockards past the protocol hazards. It was at least the third time she’d apologized. “And wearing your uniform might have sent the wrong message”

“I wasn’t going to wear my uniform,” said Zen.

“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” said Breanna. “He thinks wearing a clean T-shirt is dressing up.”

“I’m on vacation, Bree. It’s not that advanced a concept.”

“There are elaborate customs here,” said Kelly. “Just as people in Brunei usually eat with their fingers—”

“Only the right hand,” said Breanna in a stage whisper to remind him.

“We have to follow their lead,” finished Kelly.

Zen sighed. It was no use arguing; he was stuck in a tie, without hope for parole.

“So are they going to catch these jokers or what?” asked Zen. “Please don’t ask that when the minister comes,” said Ms. Kelly.

“Why not?”

“It’s insulting, Jeff. Of course they’ll catch them:’ said Breanna.

“They were probably guerillas from across the border,” said Kelly. “Islamic terrorists who want to disrupt the Malaysian government. Brunei itself doesn’t have an insurgent problem. There’s no poverty here. Everyone’s happy.”

Zen thought that was incredibly naive. People didn’t rebel against governments just because they were poor. The people who threw the tea into Boston Harbor weren’t starving.

“I think it was a kidnapping for money,” said Breanna.

“Well they tried to get the wrong people then, obviously,” said Zen. “They could have saved themselves a lot of trouble by looking at our checking account.”

“If they could figure it out,” laughed Bree.

“I think they were going after the royal family,” said Zen. “It was their beach.”

“Oh, my God, I was afraid of this,” said Kelly. She pushed away from the chair and rose.

Zen looked up. The sultan himself had just come into the room. He wore a white Western suit, with no outward sign of his rank, but there was no mistaking his authority; a phalanx of aides followed in his wake, and they were trailed by a dozen soldiers. He strutted confidently across the room — the gait even seemed a bit arrogant, thought Zen, but then if he were absolute ruler of an oil-rich kingdom, he’d be a little arrogant, too.

The sultan smiled at Breanna and Kelly, waving his hands at them to make them sit in their seats. Zen watched him bow to the ladies, then bowed his own head as the sultan looked at him.

“The heroes!” exclaimed the ruler.

Attendants and restaurant staff swept in behind him, one pulling up an oversized chair and others appearing with trays of food. Zen’s coffee was refilled; the ladies were given fresh tea. Breakfast meats and sweets suddenly covered every inch of the table.

“I apologize to you on behalf of the people of Brunei,” said the sultan, looking at Breanna.

“Oh, an apology isn’t necessary,” Bree told him. “It was nothing.”

The sultan shook his head. “These criminals. They are outlaws before the eyes of God.”

“Who were they, exactly?” asked Zen, ignoring the evil-eye glare Kelly shot at him.

“They came over from Malaysia, we believe,” said the sultan, who did not seem offended. “Or they were Chinese criminals. We will catch them.”

“Good,” said Zen.

The sultan turned to Breanna. “You have been training our pilots.”

“Yes. They’re very good students”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “Your plane is a wonderful aircraft. I hope we will be able to purchase many”

“Maybe you should get more counter-insurgency aircraft, if guerillas are a problem,” said Zen.

The sultan’s expression gave only the slightest hint that the comment was out of line. Kelly, on the other hand, seemed to be having a heart attack.

“We have requested many aircraft to bring ourselves up to present standards,” said the sultan, his tone slightly indulgent. “Fortunately, we ourselves do not have an insurgent problem. We need the aircraft to fulfill our role in ASEAN, the Asian alliance. Beyond that — well, you see for yourself. Everyone is happy here.”

The sultan rose. Kelly jumped up. Zen half expected her to beckon at him to rise out of his chair.

Hey, if the sultan had any real power, maybe Zen would be able to.

“I apologize again, and I hope you will enjoy your stay,” the sultan told Breanna. “Anything that can be done to make you happy, will be done.”

Then he held out his hand for her to kiss his ring. Zen rolled his eyes, but Breanna did it, as did Kelly. Then the sultan, trailed by his entourage, strutted his way out of the room.

“You insulted him,” Kelly said when they were gone.

“Relax,” Zen told her. “What’s he going to do? Nuke us?”

“Jeff, that’s terrible,” Breanna told her husband. “Really, hon. I know you’re still upset. But cut the guy some slack.”

“Why? He’s the supreme ruler, right? He’s in charge. Who else should take the heat?”

Breanna rolled her eyes. It was always obvious when he was upset — he got even crankier than normal. She turned to Kelly. “I don’t think he really insulted the sultan. And he has a point about the aircraft. Megafortresses are overkill.”

“The sultan was insulted,” said the state department rep. “Believe me, I could tell. You don’t understand this country.”

“I do understand that we almost got killed,” said Zen.

“Weapons procurement is none of your business.”

“I know more about those weapons than the sultan ever will. And I’ll tell you — Brunei doesn’t need them. They do need counter-insurgency aircraft. That’s what you should be selling them. Those people who attacked us yesterday are just the tip of the iceberg, I’ll bet.”

Kelly got up. “Please contact my office if you need anything else. Have a good flight home, Major.”

“You were really rude,” Breanna told him when Kelly was gone.

“Come on. Kelly forgets whose side she’s on.”

“She’s just trying to do her job. And I meant to the sultan. He’s a very nice man. Very charming.”

“Aw, come on, Bree. He’s a dictator. Just because he calls himself sultan, you’re going to let him off?”

“He’s very educated and civilized. He’s a hereditary ruler.”

“So was King George, the guy we kicked out of America two hundred years ago, remember?”

“I forgot your ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

“It was the Guernsey,” said Zen. He wasn’t joking — his relatives had come over in the 1600s, landing in Virginia.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be more diplomatic,” she insisted, taking her cup of tea. “You’re going to have to be more diplomatic if you want to make colonel.”

“Why? Your dad doesn’t kiss ass.”

Breanna put her hand out and touched his arm. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Let’s not fight.”

“Who’s fighting?”

“Okay.”

“Want me to cancel my flight?”

Breanna looked at him. She did, actually. Not just for this afternoon — for weeks and months. She wanted him to stay here with her, stay in paradise.

Or something less than paradise. As long as they were together.

She’d been scared yesterday, worried what she would do if she found him dead there. Breanna had faced that fear before, but that didn’t make it easier — if anything, it seemed to be getting worse.

She wanted to tell him to stay. But he had a job to do. He was due back at Dreamland for a VIP demonstration.

“I do want you to cancel your flight,” she admitted finally. “But you better not. I’m okay.” She put her hand down on his. “We have some time left. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, stroking her fingertips as if they were the soft petals of a flower.

Chapter 5

Sahurah Niu waited outside the hut, trying to clear his mind of all distraction. The mission, so long in the planning, had been an utter failure. The operation — the first launched by their group against Brunei instead of Malaysia, their long-time enemy — had resulted only in their own losses. The corrupt sultan and his puppet government would now prepare themselves against further attacks, and perhaps even work in concert with the Malaysians.

There was no way to take it back now. Regrets were useless. He must face the punishment that awaited him like a man.

An aide emerged from the hut and beckoned to Sahurah. He lowered his head and stepped inside, preparing himself with a silent prayer. His head throbbed, but he sturdied himself against the pain; he would find redemption in punishment, he decided. He would accept his punishment gladly.

The Saudi visitor sat beside the imam, legs crossed on the rug covering the dirt floor. Sahurah had met the Saudi a year before at the training camp in Afghanistan; he was a devout, humble man filled with fire against the Western corruptors and devils, as holy in his way as the imam who had been the spiritual and temporal leader of the movement on Borneo island for more than a decade. Sahurah had seen him arrive yesterday, but it was clear that the Saudi did not recognize him; he said nothing then, and he said nothing now, lowering himself humbly. It was unusual that another witnessed their talks, but perhaps that was intended as part of the punishment. Sahurah bowed his head and waited.

But the imam did not berate him. He asked instead if he would like something to drink.

Sahurah declined, trying to hide his surprise. He glanced at the Saudi, but then turned his gaze back to the rug in front of him.

“The next phase of struggle has begun,” said the imam. He spoke in Arabic for the benefit of their visitor, who did not speak Malaysian. “You will go to Kota Kinabalu, and carry a message. It has been arranged”

Kota Kinabalu, on the coast below them, was a stronghold of the Malaysian government. It contained a police station and a small naval base. Until now, the imam had forbidden operations there — it was considered too well guarded by the Malaysian authorities.

He was being sent to become a martyr. For the first time in months, Sahurah felt truly happy.

“You will meet with a Malaysian, and you will bring back a message,” added the imam. “Specific instructions will meet you near your destination, as a precaution for your security. Do this successfully, and much glory will come to you. There will be other tasks”

Sahurah struggled to contain his disappointment. He bowed his head, then rose and left the hut.

Chapter 6

“Dream Mover is approaching target area, preparing to launch probe units,” the airborne mission commander told Danny Freah over the command circuit.

“Acknowledged,” said Danny.

“Software’s up and running,” said Jennifer Gleason, hunched over a laptop next to Danny in the MV-22 Osprey. “Ten seconds to air launch.”

“Let’s get it going,” whispered Danny under his breath. “Launching One. Launching Two,” said the pilot.

Two winged canisters about twelve feet long dropped off the wings of the C-17. Their bodies looked more like squashed torpedoes than aircraft, but the unpowered rectangles were a cross between gliders and dump trucks. The canisters — at the moment they did not have an official name — were the delivery end of the Automated Combat Robot or ACR system, a cutting-edge force multiplier designed to augment the fighting abilities of small combat teams operating in hostile territory. As the canisters fell from the aircraft, two mission specialists aboard the C-17 took control of them, popping out winglets and initiating a controlled descent onto Dreamland Test Range C, five miles away.

Jennifer, monitoring the software that helped the specialists steer the canisters, began pumping her keyboard furiously as the screen flashed a red warning.

“Problem?” asked Danny.

“Ehh,” she said. “Sensor read won’t translate quickly enough.”

“Is it going to crash?”

“Hope not.”

“If he crashes it, three congressmen are going to tell everyone in America the system doesn’t work.”

“Not everyone in America,” said Jennifer, putting her nose closer to her keys.

Danny tried to relax. In his capacity as the head of the Whiplash ground team, he was responsible for the system being tested. It was his first — and so far only — program responsibility, and he shared it with two senior engineers. But as the ranking military officer on the project, he’d been the one to meet with the congressmen, the face VIPs liked to attach to a mission.

The congressmen were already in a bad mood. When they had insisted on seeing the Automated Combat Robot or ACR system in a “real live test,” they apparently didn’t realize that it was meant to operate at such an ungodly hour.

The event scenario was straightforward. A downed airman had just been located behind enemy lines by a search and rescue asset. Danny and two of his Whiplash troopers, aided by the robots, would rescue him from the clutches of Red, the enemy patrolling all around.

In real life, such a rescue would probably have been done with considerable force, or at least as much firepower as possible. There was basically no such thing as too much muscle in that situation, and the more boots — and guns — available, the better. But the more people in the package, the more things that could go wrong. ACR could make it possible to limit the exposure of the rescuers and increase the odds of success.

“They’re in. Okay,” said Jennifer. “Deployment. You’re looking good, Danny.”

“Ten minutes,” he told his men.

Down on the ground, the two gliding canisters had landed on the scrubby desert. Their sides had fallen away, disgorging a trio of ACR robots. The units were roughly two feet in length and were propelled by articulated tractor treads at both sides, an arrangement that allowed them to get over obstacles two feet high and avoid anything larger. Besides the small infrared and video cameras studding the units, the ACR robots carried what looked like a bouquet of pipe organs atop their chassis. These were reworked M203 forty-millimeter grenade launchers, which could be equipped with a variety of grenades, making the ARC units weapons as well as scouts.

The units began fanning out to form a perimeter around the downed airman. “Deployed without a problem,” reported Jennifer. “The Toasters are marching on.”

Danny winced at the nickname, hoping it wouldn’t catch on. He picked up his smart helmet and put it on, flipping down the visor, a display screen which could be tied into the ACR system, or any of several other sensor sets supplied through a special Dreamland system.

“Gear up,” Danny told his team. Then he began flipping through the ACR screens, looking for the four members of Red who were hunting his downed airman.

Sergeant Ben “Boston” Rockland, the Red Commander, smiled as he heard the drone of the approaching Osprey. Though it was still a good distance off, the aircraft had a very distinctive sound.

He turned and nodded to the ranger a few feet away. They’d decided not to use their radios, figuring that the Whiplash team might be able to home in on the signal. The ranger, another member of Red, lobbed a smoke grenade at the lumbering robot that was trundling toward them twenty yards away. As the grenade exploded, Boston saw that the ruse would work even better than he had hoped — the robot began peppering the air with its own smoke grenades, and provoked the robot to the north and south of it to start firing as well. The thick layer of smoke began drifting over the test range, obscuring the robots’ sensors.

“Bonzai!” yelled Boston, throwing off his vest and starting to run.

They used ropes to get off the Osprey quickly. The large blades of the aircraft’s engines whipped up the dirt, pelting the team with a mist of rocks. Danny got to the ground and spun to his right, hustling after his two men as they sprinted the fifty yards to their “airman.” One of the ACR units had engaged the Red unit to the north; from this point out it was going to be a jog in the park.

The whirling sand blocked Danny’s optical image momentarily, but as it cleared he saw his man a few yards away, standing in his shirtsleeves and waving his hand. His other team members had apparently detoured to protect the perimeter, so Danny went to his airman to tap him per the exercise rules and call the Osprey in for the pickup.

Except it wasn’t his airman.

“Bang bang, you’re dead,” grinned Boston, producing a pistol from behind his back. Its laser dot settled on Danny’s bulletproof vest, officially killing him. “Gotcha, Captain. Boy, if I only had a camera right now …”

Chapter 7

The stars had begun to fade from the sky, and the ocean swelled with the mottled shadows of the approaching morn. A solitary merchant ship cruised in the darkness, heading toward the capital of Brunei, Bandar Seri Begawan, which lay upriver from the Brunei Bay on the northern coast of the island of Borneo. The ship rode low on the waves with a load of motorbikes and electric goods, along with a variety of items ranging from Korean vegetables to American-style jeans.

Arriving on the bridge from his cabin, the captain of the ship noticed a shadow on the southwest horizon. He stared at it a moment, trying to make sense of it. The dark smudge moved with incredible swiftness, riding so low against the water that it could only be a wave or some sort of optical illusion; still, the captain went to the radar himself, confirming that there was no contact. His thirty years at sea had made him wary, and it was only when he looked back and saw nothing that he reached for his customary cup of coffee. He took a sip from his cup and listened as the officer of the watch described the expected weather. A storm had been forecast but was at least several hours away; they would be safely in the harbor by then.

“It is good that we are early then,” he told the others on the bridge in Spanish.

It was the last thing the captain said on this earth. For as he raised his cup of coffee to his lips, the missile that had been launched from the shadow in the distance exploded five feet behind him.

The French-built Exocet missile carried a relatively small warhead at 364 pounds; while the explosion destroyed the bridge it would not by itself have been enough to sink the ship. The more damaging blow was landed by the second weapon, fired a bare second and a half after the first; this missile struck at the waterline just ahead of the exact middle of the ship. The warhead carried through the hull before exploding; the vessel shuddered with the impact and within moments began to settle. Nearly a third of the crew had been killed or trapped by the two blasts; the others were so stunned that it would be several minutes before most even got to their proper emergency stations. By then the ship would be lost.

Five miles away, the man who had given the order to launch the missiles stood over the small video screen, watching through a long-range infrared camera as the doomed merchant ship began to sink.

The attack had been an easy one; a bare demonstration of the Malaysian navy vessel’s capabilities. Named the Barracuda, the experimental high-speed craft was every bit the voracious predator, clothed in dark black skin made of metal and fiber-glass arranged in sharp facets to deflect radar waves. The craft used a technology known as “wing-in-surface-effect,” which allowed it to skim over the water at high speed; it could reach over four hundred knots, though to fire effectively it had to slow to below one hundred, and had to go even slower in choppy seas and bad weather. A one-of-a-kind vessel built in secret as part of a concerted effort to upgrade the Malaysian military, the Barracuda heralded a new age for the nation that spread out over more than a thousand miles of the southeastern Pacific.

A new age, and new opportunities, thought the vessel’s commander, Captain Dazhou Ti. He had great wishes for the future, and above all a lust for revenge against the family that had wronged his ancestors. The Barracuda would make it possible to achieve all of his goals.

Dazhou straightened, then looked around the red-lit command area of his vessel. The space was barely ten by twenty feet, and every inch was utilized. Eight men and the captain worked here; another two were assigned to the rear compartment as weapons handlers to watch over the automated equipment and, if the need arose, to work the thirty-millimeter cannon.

“A job well done,” he told his men.

The crew was well disciplined, and not one man looked up from his station or said the slightest word. This pleased Dazhou greatly.

“We will return,” he announced. “To your course, helm.”

The vessel began picking up speed instantly, slipping into the morning mist that hugged the coastline. Dazhou returned to his station at the center of the deck, mindful that he fired but the opening salvo in a long, long war.