Armageddon d-6

by Dale Brown

  “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

  Washington, D.C.

  6 October 1997 (7 October Brunei), 0743

  “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 use
d 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-15
s, 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

  Malay Negara Brunei Darussalam

  7 October 1997, (local) 0802

  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.”