Armageddon, page 30
part #6 of Dale Brown's Dreamland Series
“Could we use it against the sultan’s forces?” asked Sahurah.
“Certainly. There are machine-guns, those racks are there for bombs or missiles. Missiles, but we could use bombs.”
“Can you fly it?”
“I have never done so.”
“That is not my question.”
Sahurah looked into the pilot’s face, filled with fear. Sahurah knew from his own experience how difficult a foe fear was. He wished he had the ability to inspire others to face it, but realized he did not. Sahurah turned and started to walk away.
“I will try, Commander,” said the pilot behind him. “I will try.
North of Meruta
1402
Dog tried the radio again, but once more all he got was static. The terrorists had stopped firing their weapons but they were still in the jungle somewhere across the road.
“I think they’ll follow us all the way to the coast,” Dog told Lang as they crouched in the weeds, catching their breath. “They’re persistent bastards.”
“No, they won’t go that far,” said the sergeant. He pointed to the south. “There’s another group coming up on our side. Look.”
Dog saw the last man in the small column as he ducked over a hilltop in the brush about a quarter of a mile away.
“Shit,” said Dog. He picked up his radio to broadcast again. “Wait,” said the sergeant. “Listen.”
Dog raised his head and heard the chopper approaching from the distance.
SITTING IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE QUICK BIRD AS IT whipped toward the area where Colonel Bastian had been located, Danny caught a glimpse of the Flighthawk darting back and forth in the sky. It looked like a crow protecting its young from a prowling cat.
“I see you, Zen,” Danny said over the Dreamland satellite circuit. “Are you in contact with them?”
“On and off. I haven’t had anything from him in the last ten minutes, but I have a rough idea of the location. The terrorists are very close by.”
He gave him GPS coordinates, and then described the spot as just west of the highway, about a hundred yards from a sharp bend.
Danny discussed it with the pilot, who thought their best bet would be to take the Quick Bird directly in while the Flighthawk laid down some covering fire near the terrorists. The pilot told Danny they could hover above the highway; if Dog came out they could pick him up, and if the bad guys came out they could fire at them themselves.
It was a risky plan, but the pilot claimed he’d done things twenty times as dangerous when he was flying with the 160th SOAR, the Army’s special operations helicopter regiment. Danny didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth.
They flew south a mile and a half, then made a wide turn on the side of the jungle where Zen thought Dog was. They dropped low and hovered over the road as the Flighthawk dipped down toward the trees, looking for something to shoot up.
“There,” said Boston. “On the left, your left, just in the ditch near the road.”
“And there,” said Danny, pointing ahead. “Terrorists at two o’clock”
DOG WATCHED AS THE HELICOPTER WHIPPED OVER THE ROAD behind them and then started to turn. Before he could get up and run for it, it began firing at the row of trees to the north. The terrorists there answered, one of them firing a rocket-propelled grenade. Dog watched in horror as the grenade flew toward the cockpit of the plane and then seemed to disappear inside it. Fortunately, it had actually sailed to the side, curving like a baseball hit down the line. By the time it exploded in the jungle, the Quick Bird had unleashed a pair of TOW missiles into the tree line.
Lang began firing his M4, and Dog whirled around just in time to see six or seven terrorists throwing themselves down about three hundred yards away to the south. He too began to fire; as he did, something darted down overhead and he heard a roar and a grating sound, the kind of thing a garbage truck might make it if digested a load of steel.
“To the road, to the road,” Lang shouted, pulling him away as another grenade flew through the air. Dog fell backward; bullets flew nearby and he seemed to be breathing dirt.
“Stay down, stay down!” Lang yelled. The Flighthawk roared right overhead, its cannon roaring.
“The helicopter,” said Dog.
Lang didn’t reply. Dog raised his head, then felt something push it down as a fresh gunfire erupted nearby. Something hot creased the back of his neck.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” yelled Lang, and Dog found himself running up onto the road. The helicopter appeared on his left, moving along slowly with its skid a foot from the ground. One of the Whiplash people, dressed in his black body armor and helmet, leaned out and started firing his gun toward the rear, while someone else leaned from the front of the cockpit. Dog threw himself toward the helicopter, grabbing for it; as he did he felt it lifting away from him. His M4 slipped away but he knew better than to fish for it; he felt himself falling to the rear and his stomach revolted for a moment. Green and black swirls passed before his eyes and his head rattled with the roar of the engine. He saw something green below his feet and realized he was not quite inside the helicopter, even though they were lifting up above the trees.
ZEN SAW THE HELICOPTER DART UPWARD. THREE FIGURES were clinging to the side.
“Clear,” Zen told Breanna.
“Launching”
The bomb fell from the belly of the Megafortress, sailing on a direct, short dive to the roadway where the terrorists were emptying their assault weapons at the helicopter and Flighthawk. The helicopter managed to clear away before the weapon exploded, but Zen had doubled back to keep the terrorists interested, and the blast of the thousand-pound warhead was so immense that the small plane stuttered momentarily, tossed so severely that Zen thought he’d lose it.
“Good shot,” said Zen finally, back in full control of the plane. “How’s your fuel?” Breanna asked.
“Have to tank inside twenty minutes. How’s yours?”
“We’re fine for four or five hours. Let’s escort the helicopter back, then set up a refuel. We may have to head back to the Philippines or to one of the Malaysian airports,” she added. “I don’t know that they’re going to be able to move Indy off the end of the runway any time soon.”
“Roger that,” said Zen, sliding over the Quick Bird.
* * *
DANNY PULLED COLONEL BASTIAN INTO THE HELICOPTER and held him as they rushed to get away. He pressed his weight down against Dog’s back as the chopper whipped over the nearby tree tops.
“We’re all right,” said the pilot as the airstrip appeared ahead, but Danny didn’t stop leaning against Dog until the helicopter’s engine had been cut, a few minutes later.
“You look like hell, Colonel,” he told him as he helped the colonel out onto the concrete.
“I feel better than I look, I think,” he said. “You okay, Tommy?”
The SF soldier started to grin—then leaned over and threw up. “My stomach feels like his,” said Dog, taking a step away. “What happened here?”
“Base was hit by a mortar attack,” said Danny. “That’s all I know. What happened to you?”
Dog recounted how they had been ambushed, and what had happened to the driver. By the time he finished, the Special Forces soldier who had stayed behind had found them. He filled them in on the casualties, which included Major Alou and Kick.
“Why the hell did they try to take off when they were under fire?” said Dog. The cuts on his face had turned deep red. “Danny? What the hell did they do that for?”
“I don’t know, Colonel,” said Danny. “Maybe they were trying to save the planes.”
“God damn it. God damn it.”
“It’s lucky for you they did,” said Danny finally.
“Losing two of my people is not lucky for me,” said the colonel angrily, stalking toward the hangar bunkers.
Southwestern Brunei, near the Malaysian border
1420
Prince bin Awg waved his hand over the map as he finished his summary of the situation. All over the country, people had shaken off their initial shock and were fighting back against the madmen; there were uprisings throughout the areas held by the terrorists.
That was the good news. Here was the bad: the terrorists were slaughtering many innocents, indiscriminately killing women and children as well as legitimate combatants.
“It is a grave, grave sin and evil,” the prince told McKenna and the local commanders, whom he had gathered for a briefing. “To spare our people, the army must launch its attack against the capital as soon as possible. The sultan has ordered it.”
The army was already on the move. Two separate columns of armored cars, augmented by pickup trucks and a few private vehicles, were now within ten and fifteen miles of the capital, approaching from different roads. They were being helped by intelligence flowing in from Dreamland’s LADS system, which was fed directly through a video hookup at the sultan’s headquarters.
“Troops should reach Bandar Seri Begawan by nightfall,” said Prince bin Awg.
“By nightfall?” asked McKenna.
“The people are rising everywhere. We cannot move quickly enough.”
“Well, fuel my plane and let’s get going,” said McKenna. “We’ll fly out in support of the column, bomb whatever we see, come back, refuel, and bomb some more.”
She punched her wingman’s arm. “You too, Seyed,” she told him.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Captain Seyed.
McKenna turned to the techie who’d come in with the prince to maintain the planes. “Can we put the bullets from the Dragonfly into the MiG?”
He shook his head. The bullets were the wrong caliber and there was no way to adapt them or the gun so they could be used. “Can we put bombs on, at least?” she asked.
“Bombs, sure. You have four hardpoints.”
“Do it.”
“The MiG is not much of a bomber,” said the prince. The sight on his MiG was an afterthought, added by the Poles after the aircraft had become too antiquated even for them to use as an interceptor. Bin Awg had purchased the plane through an intermediary when the Poles surplused it after years of storage; it was likely the plane had never dropped more than a dozen bombs, and those had all undoubtedly been dummies.
“Not much of a bomber’s better than no bomber at all,” said McKenna. “Let’s load her up.”
Southeastern Brunei
Exact location and time unknown
Mack felt his leg starting to go to sleep. He rose, shook it, and then walked back and forth. The man with the pistol paid no attention to him.
What would happen if he just walked away?
He had started toward the door when the man who had brought him here came in, followed by two others whom Mack had not seen before. The men started talking to the man with the pistol excitedly; they seemed to be arguing.
“Say, uh, you mind if I ask some questions?” said Mack finally.
One of the men gave him a disdainful look, then signaled for the others to go outside.
“Don’t leave on my account,” said Mack, watching them go. He sat back down.
“They’re arguing about what to do,” said one of the women near them.
“You speak English?”
One of the other women reached to stop her but she pushed away, defiant. “They said they would kill us and our children if we spoke. They’ve taken the men who were here. They arrived two days ago. They wore white uniforms until today. Now they seem scared.”
“Where did they take the men?” asked Mack.
The woman said nothing, instead looking toward the door.
The two men Mack had seen before came in. They walked to the nearest woman, yanking her up so ferociously her baby slipped from her hands. They pushed her, not letting her bring the child.
“What the hell?” said Mack as they left. “What the hell?” The answer came a few seconds later, with the muffled crack of a pistol fired into a skull at very close range.
Off the coast of Brunei
1720
Jennifer watched the display as LADS Vehicle One tracked the two ships approaching from the north. Both were Malaysian navy vessels, according to their markings and flags. The first appeared to be a Spica-M class attack craft; the computer ID was tentative but Malaysia had several, and it was of roughly the right size.
The second ship, larger and better armed than the first, was clearly the Kalsamana, an Italian-built corvette obtained only a month ago with her sister ship, the Laksamana. The Kalsamana packed Aspide anti-aircraft missiles and Otomat anti-ship missiles, along with a sixty-two-millimeter cannon and a twin forty-millimeter gun.
“Sergeant Garcia, what do you make of this?” Jennifer asked, calling Garcia over to the control station. “These are Malaysian navy ships.”
“Maybe they’re looking for those bastards we took care of the other night,” said Garcia. “They claimed they were rebels who had stolen the ship.”
“Maybe we should send the helicopter up, just to get it off the platform so we don’t call attention to ourselves,” said Jennifer.
“Let me get Sergeant Liu,” said Bison.
Liu and the helicopter pilot came down and took a look at the screen, staring at it as Jennifer explained how she had tracked the two ships.
“The Malaysians are our allies,” said Liu.
“I know,” said Jennifer. “But I don’t trust them at all. I think we should launch the helicopter and lay low.”
“Agreed,” said Liu.
The pilot nodded. “I’ll loop away, then come in from the north, ask them what’s going on.”
“Have you received an update from the base in Malaysia?” asked Liu.
“Colonel Bastian was recovered,” said Jennifer.
Liu nodded. They already knew that Merce Alou and Kick had been killed. The helo kicked up above, and the building shook as it took off.
“Ships are probably nothing,” said Liu.
“Probably,” said Jennifer.
“I’m going back to my lookout post. We’ll take turns eating at 1800”
“Sounds good to me,” said Garcia.
Just as Liu walked out, the LADS system emitted a loud beep. Jennifer looked down at the screen, where a warning flashed:
LAUNCH DETECTED.
“They’ve fired a missile at us!” she yelled, jumping up from her chair.
VII
“HANG ON”
Brunei International Airport
1720
THE LARGE RUSSIAN AIRCRAFT LOOKED LIKE AN ANGEL astride the ramp, its wings giant arms that extended over the turf and dirt. Its silver skin gleamed in the low sun, and as he stared at it Sahurah felt himself drawn to the craft, as if beckoned by Allah himself. The throb in his head vanished; the cacophony of the others around him, his assistants and lieutenants with their reports and demands and updates—all faded as he looked at the plane. Truly, God had sent it. Two brothers who were mechanics had come forward from the city to volunteer their knowledge of the aircraft. They had found the fuel tanks nearly filled—the hand of the Lord, obviously. It was the only explanation.
Yayasan and the other pilot would fly the plane. The second man had experience with large jets, including the 737 sitting on the civilian side of the airport. That experience, Yayasan said, would serve him well with the large Russian plane, whose multiple engines and big body made it complicated to fly.
It seemed to Sahurah as he stared at the plane that he could fly it himself. God had sent it for him—to carry him to heaven.
“Commander, the Badger is ready,” said the pilot. “Do we have your permission to take off?”
“I am going with you,” Sahurah told him.
“To survey the city?”
“I am going with you”
“Yes, of course, Commander. Come and let us fly while we have plenty of light.”
Off the coast of Brunei
1722
Jennifer grabbed her laptop as she ran from the small room, following Garcia and trailed by Liu. As they reached the door, the system beeped with another warning—a second missile had been launched at the platform.
The Otomat ship-to-ship missiles fired at the platform carried a 210 kilogram warhead, just under five hundred pounds. Developed by the French and Italians, the missile traveled close to the speed of sound; that gave them roughly two minutes to get off the platform and as far away as possible.
Jennifer turned to climb up to the roof.
“No,” yelled Liu. “He’s going to take on the ships. Come on. We’ll use the boats. This way”
The sergeant pulled her down to the lower deck, and then prodded her toward the ladder. Garcia had reached it already, and with Bison had revved the motor on one of their two Zodiacs. Jennifer jumped into the other, scrambling toward the engine; Liu unlashed it and pushed it away from the dock so fiercely that he fell into the water as the boat bobbed off. By the time he got back aboard Jennifer had the motor working; she revved it and went forward so fast she nearly struck the small dock, veering off at the last second.
“Down, down!” yelled Liu at her as they flew across the waves. Jennifer started to duck but couldn’t see to steer; afraid of running into something she put her head up, steadying herself with one hand against the boat’s neoprene gunwale.
The missiles skimmed over the water on their final approach on the platform. The first soared almost directly over her head. Jennifer spun around in time to see the missile pass between the platform’s piers without hitting anything. The sky burst gray and white behind the steel gridwork; a moment later the sound cracked and the small boat seemed to lift forward with it. Just then Jennifer saw the second missile strike the upper deck, spewing black shards and circles into the air as it exploded. The sound this time pushed her down sideways, all the way to the bottom of the boat.
When Jennifer finally looked back, she saw the deck area on the northern side was blackened and battered. The superstructure leaned sharply to that side. She steered around in a circle, taking the boat toward the other Zodiac, where Bison and Garcia were scanning the horizon with a set of binoculars.
