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.

“First deck is secure,” said Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez. “Bison, where are you?”

“Yo, right behind you,” answered Sergeant Kevin “Smokes” Bison.

“Going downstairs.”

Danny felt the rush of wind from the second helicopter overhead as he jumped down off the roof. He checked the time on the status bar at the bottom of his smart. They had about ten more minutes to decide whether the helicopters were staying or not; after that, the mission plan dictated that the choppers head back to the Philippines and return later in the day. Even the Dreamland helos couldn’t carry enough fuel to linger very long.

The door to the enclosed office and rest area was locked. Danny drew his pistol, and fired once point-blank at the lock. The bullet had a specially designed metal slug as its payload; it worked like a sledgehammer, removing the lock.

MP5 ready, Danny sprung the door open with his foot, staying back in case there was a reaction. After a few seconds, Sergeant Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd inserted a telescoping wand with a fish-eye camera into the open space; it fed a shadowy image into their smart helmets.

“Clear,” said Pretty Boy.

Danny moved quickly into the large room, still on edge. A beach chair sat on the far wall; a bag of clothes or linens was nearby it. There were two open doorways on Danny’s right. The smart helmet sensors couldn’t see very far into the rooms.

“Right first,” said Danny. Pretty Boy checked both rooms with the telescoping eye; both were clear, as was a shower and restroom area inside the second room.

The rest of the team, meanwhile, landed. Sergeant Liu had begun inspecting the interior of the building.