by Dale Brown
Or at least not announced it.
“Good time to tank?” asked Kick.
“Yup. You think you can do better than Starship?”
“I made it on the first try.”
“There’s always room for improvement,” said Zen.
Brunei
1900
Dog stared out the window of the Mercedes limo as the caravan approached the gates of the sultan’s palace of Istana. Part of a large and modern government complex, the Istana Nurul Iman sat on a rise above the city. A golden globe sat to the left, shimmering with the reflected glare of floodlights. A web of white steel rose in the shape of an airy roof from the main gate, sheltering the procession past an honor guard to the entrance of the ceremonial hall, which sat just beyond the sultan’s personal home and government offices.
Colonel Bastian had spent most of the day with members of the Brunei armed forces, trying to get the protocol crap out of the way so he could join the patrols tomorrow. He was now on his way to a state dinner being thrown in his honor; if he survived that, he figured he’d be done with the diplomatic BS for at least a few days.
Things had been so hectic he hadn’t even had a chance to call Jennifer and see how she was. He thought of her as the cars started through the gate; if she were here she’d have some smart-alecky thing to say about the fancy buildings and frou-frou trees lining the grounds. She’d laugh about how uptight he was.
She’d also be wearing a pretty dress. He could do with that.
“The tie, Colonel. The tie.”
Dog turned to Brenda Kelly, the State Department protocol officer who was sitting next to him in the back of the limo.
“Your tie,” she repeated as the car stopped.
“Oh yeah.”
Dog made the adjustment just as the door snapped open. Dog unfolded himself from the back of the car, then turned and put his hand out for Miss Kelly, who had dressed in a long, traditional sari with a scarf to cover her head, showing respect. With Kelly on his arm, Dog began walking down a red carpet toward a set of steps. It was a long walk, and he had to pause every ten feet or so, as a different contingent of the honor guards snapped to in anticipation of a formal salute.
“I feel like we’re at a Hollywood premiere,” Dog whispered when they reached the set of steps just below the main entrance. A group of soldiers barred their way, aiming a pair of flags at them.
“Wait until we get inside,” said Kelly.
“I don’t have to salute inside, right?” asked Dog. “Or are the rules different here?”
“Bow when the sultan comes,” said Kelly, who had told him to do this at least a dozen times.
Dog remembered, bending stiffly with as much grace and solemnity that he could muster. The sultan, a congenial man who managed to seem both casual and regal at the same time, stepped up and put his arm around Colonel Bastian as if they were old friends.
“We are glad you are here,” he told Dog.
“My pleasure. Absolutely my pleasure.”
“Major Smith has regaled us with your achievements,” said the sultan. “You are quite a hero.”
“Not really, Your Highness.”
“No need for modesty among friends,” said the sultan, leading him from the large reception room. They walked down a hall, Miss Kelly and other dignitaries falling in behind them. The sultan pointed out some artworks and a letter from King George — it wasn’t clear which one — as they walked.
“I thought of being a pilot in my younger days,” said the ruler as they entered a room that looked somewhat like a fancy English club. It was filled with people, including Mack Smith, who nodded at Dog from the side. “But flying is a job for a young man.”
“You’re still young enough to fly,” said Dog. He hadn’t meant it as flattery; the ruler seemed about his own age.
The sultan smiled, then began introducing him to some of his government ministers, members of the legislative council who advised him on important matters. He and most of the country’s elite spoke English perfectly; Brunei was part of the Commonwealth, and had in fact spent much of the twentieth century under British rule. While Malay was the official language, a good number of the 336,000 people who lived in the country spoke English, and no member of the kingdom would consider himself educated if he didn’t.
Dog shook hands and nodded for nearly a half hour, continuing to do so even as the sultan stepped away to confer with one of his sons. Miss Kelly stepped up and whispered in Dog’s ear, identifying whom he was greeting — the British ambassador, the head of the British Army Gurkhas battalion stationed in the kingdom, and a number of prominent businessmen.
Waiters appeared carrying plates laden with food. Everyone seemed to stand back on some invisible signal. Dog realized they were watching him anxiously.
“You have to try the food first,” whispered Miss Kelly. “Manners.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the State Department rep. “You’re the guest. Go.”
Dog took a fork and small plate from the nearest server. The hors d’oeuvre tasted somewhere between a pepperoni and an anchovy (it was a specially pickled shrimp), but Dog figured he would survive.
“This one,” said Miss Kelly.
“More?” he whispered.
“Smile, Colonel.”
“What is it?”
“Some sort of jellied curry fruit. I think.”
“You think?”
Dog speared the thick green curlicue. He’d just about gotten it into his mouth when Mack Smith appeared at his elbow.
“Hey, Colonel,” said Mack. “Try the monkey brains yet?”
“Mack. Where the hell have you been since last night?”
“You told me to make nice with the political types. I have been. Me and the sultan’s nephew are like that.”
He twisted his fingers together.
“Which nephew?” asked Dog.
“Unofficial head of the air force. Catch up with you in a bit,” said Mack, sliding away. Colonel Bastian started to take a step after him, but Miss Kelly grabbed him.
Not particularly gently, either.
“Eat,” she whispered.
“You and my grandmother have a lot in common,” said Dog.
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
Dog smiled at the latest waiter, taking a plate from him. This time the intricate creation — it was a collection of fruit in a tiny cup made from rice — tasted so delicious he actually wanted another. But apparently the protocol didn’t allow for seconds; he needed to try as many dishes as possible.
“You’re doing great, Colonel,” said Miss Kelly.
“If I don’t like it, what happens?”
“They chop off the cook’s head,” she said.
Dog thought it was a joke, but he wasn’t positive.
“I have someone you have to meet, Colonel,” said Mack, tugging slightly at his arm.
Dog turned. A youngish, slightly paunchy man wearing a perfectly tailored suit smiled and bowed his head. Dog bowed back, noticing the man’s large black opal pinkie ring and his thick Rolex.
“His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg,” whispered Miss Kelly, a second before Mack could. “The sultan’s nephew. Unofficial head of the air force.”
“Your Highness,” said Dog.
“Colonel Bastian. We have heard much about you and your squadron,” said bin Awg. “We are extremely impressed, and deeply honored to have you in our kingdom.”
“The pleasure’s ours, I assure you,” Dog told him. “I’m glad that we could assist in the ASEAN exercises.”
“Most delightful,” said bin Awg.
“Pehin’s a collector,” said Mack.
Dog saw Miss Kelly stiffen. She had explained yesterday that “Pehin” wasn’t a name but rather an honorific used by important members of the government. But bin Awg ignored the faux pas, smiling and tilting his head.
“I have a few old airplanes,” said bin Awg. “It’s a hobby.”
“I see,” said Dog. “What sort of airplanes?”
“You’ll have to come to see for yourself.”
“I hope to,” said Dog.
“Hell, Colonel, Pehin’s got two MiG-19s, a MiG-21 from Yugoslavia, a Mirage III — piece of shit, take it from me — and, get this, a Badger. A Badger, Colonel.”
“Nice,” said Dog. He could practically feel the killer stare Miss Kelly was laying on Mack.
“I have been fortunate in finding old wrecks and restoring them,” said bin Awg modestly. “I also have a Catalina flying boat. A handsome aircraft as built, and I have added a few modern amenities. I’ve offered Major Smith the chance to fly some of my fleet,” added the prince. “Perhaps you would care to as well.”
“I’d love to,” said Dog. “When I get a chance. You really have an old MiG-19?”
“Yes, yes. The North Koreans will sell anything for food these days. It was in reasonable repair — if one overlooks the fact that it did not have an engine.”
“I told the prince he and his uncle could come up in a Megafortress for a spin tomorrow,” said Mack. “They’re psyched.”
It took every ounce of Dog’s restraint not to slap his erstwhile political officer across the face.
“Mack, let’s talk for a second,” he told Smith. “Excuse us, Your Highness.”
He took two steps backward. Miss Kelly stepped forward to chat with the prince, who sampled some of the food in Dog’s place.
“Are you out of your mind?” Dog asked Mack.
“Why?”
“We’re not here as part of a carnival show. We have a mission.”
“Yeah, but Miss State Department Bombshell says we’re supposed to make nice,” said Mack. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“Bin Awg is head of the air force?”
“Unofficially,” said Mack. “He’s more a consultant. See, the sultan is the head of the military forces. Then there are the professional officers and whatnot. My buddy Pehin is kinda between them and his uncle. Haven’t seen him fly yet. Great guy. Knows where the best clubs are. Doesn’t drink — that’s his only flaw.”
“Mack, you’re supposed to improve relations, not threaten them.”
“I am. So what do you say? We take him up for a spin in the morning? Morning’s around noon here, if you get my drift.”
“Both planes are taking off at 0700 tomorrow,” Dog told Mack. “There’s no time for a demonstration flight tomorrow.”
“Next day then,” said Mack. “Hey, Zen brought his nuggets with him. Hey, boys.”
As Mack walked off, Dog reminded himself that he had personally tagged the major to come along. While he’d made the choice largely because Mack was one of the few officers at Dreamland he could actually spare for a do-nothing job, it was nonetheless a decision that could not be cited as one of his best. Smith was an excellent pilot, but outside of the cockpit, he was a class-one boob.
Dog turned back to find bin Awg talking up Miss Kelly, who was flashing her full smile on him.
“We are very much in the mind frame of expanding our air force,” said the prince. “At present we have the Hawk 100s and 200s but, well, without disparaging our British friends — I fear the ambassador is within earshot — we are certainly in the market for upgrades.”
“We use a version of the Hawk ourselves,” said Dog. “It’s a competent aircraft.”
“Yes, the Goshawk T-45A, as a trainer for the Navy,” said bin Awg. “Very suitable in that role. But as compared to an F/A-18 or a Mikoyan MiG-29… Well, Colonel, I leave the judgment to you.”
“You’re thinking of buying Russian planes?” asked Miss Kelly.
Bin Awg smiled apologetically. “They are so desperate for hard currency these days that the price can be very attractive.”
“I’d think there’d be no comparison between the F/A-18 and a MiG-29,” said Dog.
Again, the prince flashed his apologetic smile. “The difficulty is perhaps with the export regulations. Sometimes these are not easily overcome.”
“Have you considered F-16s?” asked Miss Kelly.
“An admirable design,” said the prince.
“Better than the MiG,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said bin Awg. “To be candid with you, Colonel, our true desire is for an aircraft with much longer range. The F-15; that would be most desirable.”
“It is a good aircraft,” said Dog.
It was also a difficult one to obtain; Congress didn’t relish the idea of the country’s frontline fighter serving under other flags. Only the Japanese, Israelis, and Saudis had been allowed to buy it, and in each case the decision involved considerable political wrangling.
“We are very much in the market for aircraft,” said bin Awg. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow, when we are aboard the Megafortress.”
“I’m afraid we’re not going to be available for a flight tomorrow,” said Dog as apologetically as he could. “We have orders from Washington to have both aircraft in the exercises. I’m sorry.”
The barest flicker of displeasure passed over the prince’s face.
“I’m afraid Major Smith made the commitment without checking with me,” added Dog.
“A raincheck perhaps,” said the prince.
“Definitely,” said Dog. “Definitely.
* * *
Zen listened to the Australian ambassador lecturing on the weakness of China.
“A few cruisers and a pair of submarines could hold the communists at bay,” said the diplomat. “They’re a shadow of themselves. A shadow of a shadow. That’s why they’re willing to talk to Taiwan. Their day is over.”
Zen had everything he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Granted, Mainland China had suffered some reverses over the past few months; the country remained a potent military force. Forget the ghost clone: It had several hundred more aircraft than the ambassador’s country, along with several new pocket aircraft carriers capable of projecting power throughout the region. Toss in cruise missiles, nuclear submarines, and undoubtedly a long-range bomber or two that the intelligence boys hadn’t caught on to yet, and you had a serious military power.
Not quite in America’s class, but nasty nonetheless.
Shadow indeed.
Stoner, standing across from Zen, nodded like a metronome as the ambassador continued.
Finally, Zen could take no more and wheeled himself away.
He found Kick standing by himself at the edge of one of the tables.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said to the Flighthawk pilot. “Where’s your partner in crime? Did he leave to catch up on his beauty rest?”
“Yeah right,” said Kick.
“You don’t like Lieutenant Starship?” asked Zen.
“He’s all right,” said Kick. “I think he headed out with Mack.”
Zen asked for a fruit drink from the waiter behind the table. There was no alcohol at the event; Brunei was an Islamic nation, and the sultan was a devout believer who would not have countenanced a violation of his religious principles.
“You sore because Starship is going to take the decoy flight tomorrow?” asked Zen.
“No, sir.”
Zen smiled at the obvious lie.
“It’s all right to be pissed,” he told the lieutenant. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be mad too. Come to think of it, I have been in your shoes. And I was pissed.”
Kick seemed surprised by Zen’s response and looked at him as if trying to figure out whether he was being tested. “Starship’s background with the F-15s means he has a little more experience. Right?”
“Just a little. You’ll catch up.”
Zen took a sip of his drink. Maybe, he thought, there was something more, something in their personalities. It seemed to him Kick was trying hard to be nice. He wouldn’t have.
Maybe that was all for show. Make nice to the boss.
“How’s your wife?” asked the lieutenant, trying to change the subject.
“Don’t know. She’
s sleeping every time I call her,” said Zen.
“How’s the punch?” asked Stoner, coming over.
“It’s punch,” said Zen. “You agree with that crap the Australian was putting out?”
“Of course not,” said Stoner, taking a drink for himself.
“You didn’t argue with him,” said Zen.
“You think I could have changed his mind?”
Zen shrugged, though of course he didn’t.
“If I don’t listen to what people tell me, I won’t know what they’re thinking,” said Stoner. “It’s useful.”
“Man, I could never be a spy,” said Zen.
“Some of us are just born slimy,” said Stoner, his voice deadpan. “Right, Lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Stoner looked down at Zen, smirking. Despite the fact that he still didn’t like the SOB, even Zen had to laugh along with him.
Dreamland
0500
Jennifer lay on the couch, watching as the channels on her television clicked by, a mélange of infomercials, talking heads, and crashes filling the screen. She had been here for an hour or so, unable to sleep, not really up to leaving the apartment for her usual early-morning run. She was still locked out of her computers, and it seemed pointless to go anywhere or do anything.
Finally she saw the start of an old Warner Bros. Bugs Bunny cartoon and stopped. She observed scientifically as Bugs made his way out of the hole and began tormenting Elmer Fudd.
Wabbits. He sounded a bit like Ray.
But at least Rubeo had been fighting for her. He’d told Cortend exactly what he thought. More than she could say about any of her other so-called friends.
The phone rang.
Maybe it was Dog, calling to see how she was. If it was, did she want to talk to him? Why should she? What could he possibly say?
The phone stopped. She waited a minute, then picked it up and checked her voice mail system.
No message.
Jennifer turned back to the TV just in time to see Fudd blast himself with his own shotgun.
She felt so sorry for him she started to cry.
Brunei IAP, Field Seven
Dreamland Mobile Command Post
11 September 1997
