The young man seemed to want to say something. Dog recognized the look in his eyes, the question—the demand, really, for something that would make sense of the deaths of his friends.

No words could do that. Dog simply shook his head.

“We have to carry on as best we can,” he told Starship.

Tears began to slip from the young man’s eyes, though he tried to fight them back. Dog felt a surge of sympathy for the young man, and yet he shared his impotence. He said nothing else, pressing his teeth together and walking toward the wrecked Dreamland Command trailer. Danny Freah had retrieved some of the backup radio gear and set it up in the shade behind it.

“I’ve just been talking to the Brunei army command. They’re about to attack the capital,” said Danny when the call ended. “They have the terrorists on the run.”

“What’s Penn’s status?”

“They’re trying to reach the drilling platform and find out what’s going on with the Malaysian ships. The Malaysian navy claims they’ve been hijacked by the terrorists. Colonel, the platform was hit by at least one missile. The helicopter managed to disable one of the ships but was shot down. Dreamland’s been watching the whole thing, but they haven’t been able to communicate with the Whiplash people since the attack. It may just be that they’re too busy”

Jennifer was with the Whiplash people aboard the platform. Dog resisted the impulse to ask if she was okay—he didn’t want to hear that she wasn’t.

“Penn should be there in a few minutes. There’s a possibility the sultan’s forces will be in control of the capital by nightfall,” added Danny. “The people in the city are rebelling against the terrorists. They want their lives back.”

“I can’t blame them,” said Dog, sitting at the portable communications console so he could get an update from Dreamland Command. The console was actually an oversized laptop attached by wire to a satellite antenna.

“Colonel, the platform has been attacked,” said Major Catsman from the control center.

“I’ve heard.”

“We have control of the system, but we have to make some changes so that we can broadcast the signal over to you. Dr. Ruben has an idea of how to do it by changing the programming in your com units. He needs some technical people to implement it.”

“We have very limited personnel here,” said Dog.

“I’ll take what I can get, Colonel,” said Ray Rubeo, appearing on the screen. The scientist’s frown seemed surprisingly reassuring on the small screen.

“All right, then,” said Dog. “Tell me what it is you want me to do”

Over Brunei, near the capital

1745

Sahurah had only been aboard two airplanes in his life, and never one like this. There was a gunner’s post in the center of the cabin behind the pilot and copilot stations; he sat in the seat, looking up at the blue vastness of heaven.

“There, Commander—armored cars on the ground,” said the pilot, Yayasan. “Look!”

Sahurah stared at the sky for a few more moments, soaking in the moment. He wanted to believe that God had sent for him—he felt it strongly. And yet it couldn’t be true.

“Commander?”

The pain at the side of his head returned. Sahurah lifted the microphone on his headset and responded to the pilot.

“The sultan and his troops are marching, Commander. We can radio the command to be prepared”

“Do so,” said Sahurah. He undid the wire that tethered him to the interphone system, and worked his way past the two pilots to the nose, which had an old-style window section for an observer.

He could see a long row of vehicles snaking toward the capital a few miles away.

Was this why God had called him, to stop the demon in his tracks?

“We will strike them,” he said after he plugged his headset in.

“Yes, Commander,” said Yayasan, his voice trembling. They had no bombs, but the guns were filled with ammunition. Besides the defensive weapons at the rear and atop and below the fuselage, the pilot could fire a twenty-three-millimeter cannon in the nose.

“Are you afraid, pilot?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“So am I. God will give us courage”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I will be there in a moment,” he told him, starting back.

Aboard “Penn,” off the coast of Brunei

1745

Even without the computer’s automatic identification library, Breanna would have recognized the aircraft synthesized in her radar screen. Only one plane like that flew over Brunei—Prince bin Awg’s famous Cold War era Badger, the same plane that Mack Smith had ridden to accidental fame in an encounter with the Chinese. She tried contacting the plane on the radio but it didn’t respond. The plane was fifty miles away.

“I see it,” said Zen. “But we better concentrate on the platform and those Malaysian ships.”

“I agree,” she said. “Should be in range in five minutes.”

“Keep up with me, Penn”

“Keep up with yourself, Hawk leader,” she told him, touching the throttle to make sure it was at the last stop.

Over Brunei, near the capital

1746

McKenna saw the radar contact maybe sixty seconds before she saw the plane with her own eyes, the large Badger swooping down at tree-top level above the western outskirts of the city. She started to call back to the ground forces to make sure the Americans hadn’t liberated the big-tailed bomber but then realized it wasn’t necessary—bullets shot from the nose of the aircraft as it attempted to strafe the line of government troops surging toward the capital. McKenna watched the plane pull up awkwardly; its strafing had been ineffectual but that was beside the point. She leaned on her stick and put the MiG into a crisp turn that put her on the back of the big aircraft, perfectly positioned to shoot the Badger down.

Except that she had no bullets in her cannon.

“Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

The Badger added insult to injury by lighting the twin NR-23 in its tail, filling the sky with shells. McKenna buzzed over the plane, ducking another stream of bullets from a gun at the top as she dove across its path. The Badger reacted in slow motion, turning back toward the city.

“Come on, you chickenshit,” she raged at it. She goosed her throttle and streaked over the top of the plane just behind the wings, so close that she thought the tailfin would strike her. Bullets flew out from all of the plane’s guns, black streams of lead littering the sky.

“I’m going to take you down,” she said, swinging around. “Just wait.”

ONE BY ONE, THE RED LIGHTS ON THE WEAPONS PANEL CAME on, indicating that the cannons were no longer capable of shooting. Sahurah did not understand how this could be; he had only fired the weapons for a few moments. Surely the guns must carry more than a few hundred rounds of ammunition.

“Why are my guns not working?” he finally asked the pilot. “We had only a hundred rounds for each one,” said Yayasan. “You’ve probably fired them all.”

The plane shuddered and then pitched sharply to the right. Sahurah saw a silver dart thunder past the forward window.

“He’s toying with us,” said Yayasan. “He’ll shoot us down soon”

Sahurah looked up through the observation dome above the gunner’s seat. The sky remained as blue as ever.

“I’ll try to return to the airport,” said the pilot. “I can’t guarantee we’ll make it.”

“All right,” said Sahurah.

Suddenly he knew why God had called him to board the plane.

Malaysian air base

1750

Dog finished entering the string of digits and hit the return key. The screen remained blank.

“Is that dish antenna facing the right direction?” he yelled.