SAHURAH BROUGHT UP HIS PISTOL TO FIRE. HIS FIRST THREE shots missed far to the right. As he shifted to get a sturdier position he felt the pain in his side again; the bullet had only creased the flesh but it flamed nonetheless.

He would have revenge. He aimed again, but as he fired, the boat jerked abruptly to the north.

“What?” demanded Sahurah, turning toward the helm.

The men pointed toward the west. A second boat was coming.

For a long moment, Sahurah hesitated. He felt his anger well inside him. Unquenchable thirst—frustration—rage.

He had failed.

“Get the others,” he said finally. “Get the ones on shore. Quickly.”

*   *   *

THIS TIME THE PRESSURE TO BREATHE WAS SO FIERCE ZEN started to cough as he broke water, his throat rebelling. His body shook with the convulsions and he found himself twisting backward in the water, unsure where he was.

He’d saved Bree, at least, he thought. They might have gotten him but his wife at least was safe.

Zen heard the boat behind him. Surprised that it was there, he pushed his tired arms to turn him in that direction. But instead he slipped beneath the waves, his energy drained.

BREANNA SAW THAT THE OTHER BOAT WAS GOING IN TO THE beach. She cut the throttle back but even at its low idle setting it still pushed the boat forward. She dared not pull the ignition wire or fiddle with the eccentric controls too much; instead, she put the boat into a circle, taking some of its momentum away before approaching the rock, about two hundred yards away.

She didn’t see Zen.

Did they have him already? Was that why there were going to shore?

“Zen! Zen!”

Something bobbed to the left, about thirty yards away.

“Jeff! Jeff!”

It was him. He-started to swim for the boat, but he was moving in slow motion, not swimming as strongly as he normally did. She maneuvered to the left and right, but couldn’t quite get close enough on the first pass and still didn’t dare to turn off the motor.

“I’ll circle around. Grab on!” she called. “This is as slow as I can go “

Breanna pushed against the throttle switch on the engine, managing to slow the speed a little more but still not entirely cut it as she came around. Zen grabbed the side of the boat, clamping his arms against it like a hobo pulling himself onto the side of a freight car.

“What are you doing?” he yelled as she pushed at the throttle, trying to get it to increase speed gently. “Let me get in for cryin’ out loud,” said Zen, pulling up against the side.

“Wait,” she told him, fighting to keep the boat balanced and moving in the right direction as the engine began churning the water faster.

“They’re going away,” Zen told her. “It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” she repeated, not quite ready to believe it.

Brunei International Airport, military section

1830

Mack Smith looked at his watch again and shook his head. Everyone in the damn country ran at least a half-hour late.

It was bad enough that his pilots were cavalier about reporting on time, but now even Breanna had caught the bug.

Mack paced in front of the A-37B Dragonfly he was supposed to fly for the night exercise. He was so short of trained pilots that he had to take the plane up himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—Mack loved to fly the old Cessna, which was similar to the T-37 “Tweet” air force pilots cut their teeth on—but the fact of the matter was, as head of the air force, he should at least have had the option of assigning someone to go in his place, just in case he wanted to party or kick back a bit. He currently had only five other pilots with suitable ratings and training to fly jet aircraft, and he was training them all to handle the Megafortress as well as his four A-37Bs. Besides getting these guys up to speed, he needed to at least triple his stable of jocks before the two other Megafortresses arrived.

Hence the importance of tonight’s session.

Stinking Breanna. Where was she?

Come to think of it, he didn’t spend any time partying anymore. There was just too much to do to get this tin can air force in shape. New planes, pilots, ground people—he had a few kids who could strip a jet engine with their eyes shut and get it back together, but he needed more, more, more.

“Excuse me, Minister.”

Mack turned to find one of his maintenance officers, a friendly but sad-sacked sort named Major Brown, who was descended from a nineteenth century British regent or some such thing.

“You can just call me Mack. You don’t need to use my title,” Mack told him for the hundredth time.

Brown’s attempt at a smile looked more forlorn than his frown.

“We have only a week’s worth of fuel supply left, sir. You asked me to bring it to your attention.”

“Did you put through that requisition or whatever the paperwork was?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did we get it?”

“No, sir.” Brown explained that simply forwarding a form into the morass that was the Brunei defensive forces purchasing system was hardly enough to elicit a yawn, let alone needed fuel supplies. Mack had heard some variation of this lecture three times a day since taking this job nearly a month ago.

“I want you to go over there tomorrow and baby-sit the damn request,” said Mack. “We need a ninety-day supply of fuel at a bare minimum.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you have to go. No—bypass the stinking bureaucracy. Go to the central defense ministry office and tell the chief of staff I sent you.”

Brown blanched. Things in the kingdom of Brunei were done by strict protocol. A mere major, or even a general of insufficient breeding, did not talk to the chief of staff, who like most people of importance was related to the sultan.

“All right,” said Mack, recognizing the look. “What do you suggest?”

“If I go to the finance office, perhaps I can get an expeditious result.”

Two weeks ago, Mack would have asked why Brown would have to go to the finance office to get something as simple as a fuel order sent up the line. Now he knew that the explanation would not clarify anything.

“Do your best,” he told Brown. “We’re all set for the exercise, right?”

“An hour ago, sir.”

“You’re a good man, Brown,” said Mack. “Do your best on the fuel thing.”

“Perhaps if you spoke to the chief of staff yourself.”

“I intend on kicking his butt if I ever see it,” said Mack under his breath.

While Mack and Brown had been talking, two other members of Mack’s staff had approached. One was his administrative assistant, Suzanne Souzou, who had a thick wad of folders in her hand. The other was his director of operations, a Brunei of Chinese extraction named Han Chou.

“Miss Souzou first,” said Mack. He smiled at Han, who was offended by the fact that a woman was given priority. “Beauty before brains.”

“You need to sign these,” said his secretary. “The interviews are set up.”

“Which interviews?”

“The contract people to fill your temporary positions?”

“Yeah, okay. Right. Good.”

“You will need to sign these or the men won’t get paid.”

Mack flipped through the folders; it would take him more than an hour to sign them all. He’d tried telling her two weeks ago to sign for him, but that, too, was a major breach of Brunei etiquette.

“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.”