Armageddon (25 page)

Aboard EB-52
“Penn,”
approaching Brunei
13 October 1997, 0428

Zen waited as the computer that helped him fly the U/MF-3 Flighthawk counted down the time to launch from its mothership, the EB-52
Pennsylvania.
Numbers drained in the main control screen, which replaced the visor in Zen’s helmet. The projections helped make it seem as if he were inside the small aircraft, and in fact he generally felt as if he were, as he flew. The screen was divided in half; the top showed a video supplied by one of three Flighthawk sensors at the front of the airplane, usually an optical feed, though he could select an infrared or synthetic radar view instead. The panel below this main screen was divided into three different views. The one at the right showed his instruments, or rather a summary of those important at any given moment. The one in the middle was a “sit rep,” or a situation representation, a kind of God’s-eye view that showed the Flighthawk, its mother ship, and anything else within fifty miles. The data was actually provided by a link with the EB-52, constantly checked and updated by the Flighthawk communications and control computer, dubbed C3. At the far left, Zen had a view synthesized from the long-distance radar feed from
Penn’s
AWACS-style radar, also presented as a God’s-eye view. He could change the displays as needed, but preferred this arrangement when he was just flying one aircraft.

The Megafortress tilted its nose downward, beginning a shallow dive that helped increase the separation forces on the robot aircraft, making it easier to launch. The computer hit zero and Zen felt his body shifting exactly as if he were sitting in the tiny little bird that rushed from the wing. The engine flared and he nudged his stick forward and slightly to the left, diving into an arc that would take him toward the oil platform they had to survey.

“Hawk One is away,” he told Dog, who was piloting the mothership.

“Penn
acknowledges.”

“Platform at ten miles. Approaching as planned.”

Zen put his finger against the throttle slide, notching down his power as he approached the platform. The structure had a pair of exposed decks about twenty feet from the waves. The decks ran around three sides. At the rear of the platform sat what amounted to a prefab ranch house at the top. The platform was smaller than those Zen had seen in the Gulf of Mexico, and a bit less elaborate—there was only one satellite dish, for instance, and no helipad. The flat roof of the trailer was just big enough for the Quick Bird helicopters the Whiplash team was riding in.

There were no ships or boats nearby. Zen took the Flighthawk through an orbit about seven thousand feet over the platform, descending gradually to allow the infrared camera in the Flighthawk to get a good look.

“Clean so far,” Zen told Dog.

“We copy,” said Dog, who was looking at the feed on his own display.

Two more passes and he saw nothing.

“I’m going to clear Danny in,” said Dog. “Let’s head over toward Brunei International Airport and have a look at the Megafortress.”

“Roger that,” said Zen, starting to climb away from the ocean.

Brunei, near the Malaysian border
0430

The helicopter brought enough fuel for only one Dragonfly. McKenna decided she would use it to scout the jungle, then escort the helicopter to the stronghold. Assuming things went well, she’d take a run over the southern part of the kingdom and scout out positions for the army people at Medit and Sukang, where the last report had the army under constant fire.

The sultan gave her a tired but nonetheless enthusiastic smile as she headed for her plane. “I owe you a great deal, Miss McKenna.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

“She’s a rough one, but a tough one,” the sultan commented in Malaysian to one of his aides, apparently forgetting she spoke it. “We need more of that.”

McKenna snorted to herself, then went to her aircraft at the end of the runway. Just as important as the fuel, Prince bin Awg had managed to find two mechanics to tend to the aircraft; they brought enough tools and parts with them that McKenna thought they could build one of the Dragonflies from scratch.

One thing about operating on a shoestring out of a jungle camp—there wasn’t a lot of hassle with the control tower. McKenna started her engines, checked her thrust, made sure the control surfaces moved in the right directions, and let it rip. The plane bucked as the wheels hit one of the mud holes—unavoidable because of the narrow path—but picked her nose up without a problem well before the trees.

McKenna tucked her wing toward the Belait River, which ran a crazy pattern up the southern Brunei countryside from the South China Sea. Both the river and the nearby roads, what little she could see of them, were deserted.

“Good to go:’ she told the helicopter pilot. “Let’s do it quick.”

“Brunei One,” acknowledged a familiar voice. The sultan, an experienced pilot, had taken the controls himself.

Brunei International Airport
0430

Mack felt the cold hand grab his throat. He jerked nearly straight up and practically fell off the cot.

“I apologize if I startled you,” said the man who had interrogated him last night, Commander Sahurah Niu. “I trust you have rested.”

“Oh, yeah. Hell of a sleep. Thanks for the cot.”

“Put on your shoes and come with me,” said Sahurah.

“Come where?”

“I wish you to show me the aircraft.”

Mack frowned as if he were reluctant to do so, hesitating just long enough for Sahurah to tell him that, while prisoners had to be treated with respect, that commandment applied only to those who were obedient.

“All right,” said Mack, pulling his shoes on. He ran his hand over his jaw, scratching the nearly two-days-worth of growth there. “Can I get some coffee at least?”

Sahurah said something to one of the men at the door.

“The coffee will be brought to the plane. I wish to complete my tour before dawn.”

“I’ll take you wherever you want,” said Mack, hopeful now that he’d be free inside a few hours.

Aboard EB-52
“Penn,”
approaching Brunei International Airport
0502

Dog kept his eyes on the image displayed by the Flighthawk as he flew the Megafortress in a double-eight pattern about ten miles from the runway. He could see the Megafortress sitting in front of the hangar as he rode the Flighthawk in toward the large hangar in the military half of the complex. He couldn’t help but think about his daughter Breanna. A few days earlier and she would have been captured along with Mack.

Assuming he’d been captured. No one had heard from him, and it was possible that, like Deci Gordon, he had managed to escape and was simply hiding out.

Though that didn’t quite seem like Mack’s style.

“Any radars?” Dog asked his copilot, Kevin McNamara. “Negative”

“Hawkins, how are the radar sweeps looking?”

“Clean,” replied Lieutenant Jesse Hawkins, one of the two radar operators who had stations just behind him on the extended flight deck. “Quick Bird helicopters are approaching the platform. They’re running slightly ahead of schedule.”

“Good.”

“They have two guards on the road, no one close to the aircraft,” Zen told Dog. He nudged the Flighthawk down through four thousand feet, taking a slow turn above the hangar and parking area. Several Dragonflies were lined up near the hangar; Zen had been told during his visit that all of the aircraft were inoperable because of serious maintenance issues. Another Dragonfly sat wrecked near the end of the runway. The two helicopters used by the air force were missing, as were the three other operational Dragonflies; they knew from earlier reports that at least one of them had crashed after being hit by small arms fire yesterday.

Over on the civilian side of the vast complex, a 757 sat next to the terminal building and another aircraft sat alone at the far end of the parking area. That airplane looked like a 707; its nose slumped downward and Zen guessed that its front gear had been disabled.

Two Hawk anti-aircraft batteries guarded the airport, along with four Panhard M3 VDA anti-aircraft weapons. The American-made surface-to-air Hawk missiles were old models, though still deemed reliable by the Pentagon briefers. While they were potent weapons, they required a highly trained crew; Zen could tell from his radar warning receiver that their associated radars had not been activated. The Panhards were armored cars with a pair of twenty-millimeter cannons mounted on top; these could be fired by radar or manually sighted and as a practical matter were likely to be more of a hazard. But they, too, seemed silent.

“Have some activity near the terminal area,” said Zen, spotting it as he came back around. “Looks like there’s a gun emplacement on the road in, machine guns I think. That wasn’t there when I was here. I’m going to take a pass at rooftop level. Hold on—looks like somebody’s heading toward the Mega-fortress”

“Target the Megafortress,” Dog told his copilot. “Get ready to take it out.”

Brunei International Airport
0505

Mack recognized the low hush of the Flighthawk engine as it approached from the north.

Zen and his stinky, lousy timing, he thought to himself. He froze on. the tarmac.

“What?” demanded Sahurah.

“Down,” hissed Mack as the Flighthawk buzzed down less than a dozen yards away.

Aboard EB-52
“Penn,”
approaching Brunei International Airport
0506

Dog swung the Megafortress out of its orbit, lining her up for a direct shot at the airport.

“I have the Megafortress,” said McNamara. “It’s far enough from the civilian side of the airport that we shouldn’t cause any collateral damage there, but the hangar in front of it will be wiped out, along with most of the apron. If it’s fueled, it’ll be a hell of a fire.”

“Understood,” said Dog.

“Range is ten miles,” said the copilot.

“Bay,” Dog told him, giving the order to open the bomb-bay door. A GPS-guided smart bomb rotated to the bottom of the launcher, ready to fire.

“I could be mistaken,” Zen said over the interphone. “But I think that’s Mack near the plane. I’ll go back through the video freeze-frame images in a second. That might even have been Deci with him, wearing a flak jacket.”

Dog immediately started to level the plane, breaking off his attack.

“Colonel?” asked McNamara.

“Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on down there,” Dog told him. “I’d prefer not to have to kill our people.”

“Yes, sir.”

IT WAS HIS WALK THAT HAD GIVEN HIM AWAY—ZEN WOULD recognize that strut anywhere. And sure enough, the enlarged image in the screen had the familiar buzz cut and crooked smile that said Mack Smith had an ego so large most days he didn’t need an airplane to get off the ground.

“You sure it’s Mack?” asked Dog.

“Looks like him. The flight suit looks like his, and there aren’t too many six-foot Anglos around here. His cowboy boots, I think.”

The boots, made from alligator, cinched it for Zen.

As Zen swung the Flighthawk over the airport again, he told the computer to push the infrared sensor settings to their maximum setting. The Megafortress was a dull brown in the screen—the engines weren’t on.

“I don’t think she’s fueled,” he told Colonel Bastian. “Nobody aboard.”

“You think we could land and pick them up?”

Zen was just about to tell him that was too crazy an idea when McNamara broke in.

“Radar up!” warned the copilot. “One of the Hawk missile batteries.”

Zen mashed the throttle as the radar-warning indicator showed that he was being targeted.

“Out of there, Zen,” Dog said. “Everybody hang on.”

“Missiles in the air!” shouted McNamara.

Off the coast of Brunei
0515

Danny Freah could see the shadow of the derrick in the distance, rising up over the platform a few miles away. The Dreamland Quick Birds had made good time getting here.

A good thing, too. The helicopters were many things—fast, reliable, heavily armed—but comfortable they were not. Their seats had about as much padding as a metal washboard.

Danny pulled on his smart helmet, which allowed him to communicate with the rest of his team and the helicopter pilots. The helmet’s visor included a panel that could be used to display feeds from video and infrared cameras at the top of the helmet, as well as images from other team members and an array of sensors.

“All right, we do this the way we drew it up,” Danny told them. “Team one rappels down, then team two. We secure the facility, make sure the roof can take the helicopters’ weight, then land. Questions?”

Danny waited for Boston’s wisecrack. He was almost disappointed when it didn’t come.

“Sergeant Liu, we, ready?” he asked Liu, who was heading team two in the second chopper.

“Ready, sir.”

“All right, pilots, your move.”

Unlike conventional helicopters, which used tail rotors to help them maneuver and remain stable in flight, the Quick Birds used a system similar to the “Notar” McDonnell Douglas had developed for the MD 530N version of the basic design. The innovative design made the small helicopter even more maneuverable, and the pilot was able to swing in close to the large metal framework as he and Danny gave it the once-over.

“Let’s do it,” said Danny.

The three men who’d been sitting in the rear compartment had already readied their ropes, anxious to get out of the cramped quarters of the scout. Danny was the last one down, his boots clunking on the metal roof of the small building that sat above the double deck of the platform. Just as he let go of the rope he lost his balance; he managed to pitch back and fall on his butt—undignified, but far better than falling on his face, and light-years ahead of going off the side.