Dale Brown - Armageddon

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The sixth in the series of high-tech thrillers centred on Dreamland – a top-secret USAF weapons research centre – from the acclaimed author of Flight of the Old Dog and Air Battle Force.Whilst relaxing on the beach in Brunei as guests of the Sultan, Dreamland's Breanna and Zen are shot at, and forced to take cover in the water by unknown assailants.Dreamland are training the Sultan's air force, instructing them on the newest and best aviation technology. But there are those not happy with this alliance.Suddenly Brunei is under attack from terrorists, and someone somewhere is getting ready for the ultimate revenge.

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Flush with his victory at sea, Dazhou met the Muslim fanatic in his office.

‘Have a drink,’ he said to him, putting down a bottle on his desk. He laughed at the expression of horror on the man’s face. ‘It’s juice,’ he told him, ‘but you needn’t drink it anyway.’

He looked at him more closely. ‘You’re the messenger?’

The fanatic nodded. There was no possibility of mistake – no rebel would show up here on his own. Unlike many of the rebels in the movement, Sahurah appeared to be a native of Borneo, very possibly of Malaysian extraction, though with thirty-one different ethnic groups on the large island there were many who could claim to be native here. Dazhou’s own family had been on Borneo for centuries.

‘You know who I am?’ Dazhou asked.

The young man – he was surely in his late twenties, though his face showed the pain of someone much older – shook his head.

‘That is just as well,’ said Dazhou. ‘There is a bathroom there, if you need it. We will leave in five minutes. Once we start, we will not stop.’

Dreamland 7 October 1997, (local) 1630

After the botched demonstration of the robot warrior system, Danny’s day became an unrelieved series of frowns and down-turned glances. He avoided breakfast with the congressmen, claiming that he had to work with the technical team recovering the devices, and managed to skip lunch by tending to his normal duties as security chief on the base. But couldn’t avoid the afternoon debriefing sessions, which culminated in a show-and-tell session for the VIPs in one of the Dreamland auditoriums. Danny walked down the hallway to the room feeling like the proverbial Dead Man Walking.

The ACR robots had actually worked exactly according to spec. Unfortunately, they had been foxed by Boston, who exploited a weakness in the system to torpedo the mission. The inexpensive, off-the-shelf sensors in the units could not see very well through smoke. While the grenade that Boston’s team member had launched at the unit might not have blinded it for very long, once it started firing off its canisters the entire area was for all intents and purposes shrouded in an impenetrable fog. Boston had timed his intrusion just right, racing as fast as he could eight hundred and fifty meters to the downed airman, who by the exercise rules was unarmed and couldn’t hear him anyway because of the approaching Osprey. Armed with only his pistol – a rifle would have slowed him down – Boston incapacitated the airman, then waited for the rescuers.

It wouldn’t have worked in real life – the grenades would have been shrapnel rather than smoke, and presumably incapacitated or killed the intruders. But that distinction seemed lost on the congressmen who were watching the video feeds in the Dreamland conference center. And the army people present for the demonstration weren’t very happy about it either. The Army had supplied 90 percent of the development funding so far, and its contribution was up for review.

Danny stood gamely with the project officers and the science types as they opened the floor up to questioning. One of the congressmen started things off by asking where the man who had shown the way around the robots was.

‘Sergeant Rockland is probably enjoying a well-earned rest right now,’ said Danny, trying to force a smile. ‘One of my best men. We try to train them to think outside of the box.’

‘Or the robot,’ said the congressman.

Danny did his best to laugh along with them, ignoring the dagger eyes from the army people.

Boston was waiting for him in his office when he finally made it over there two hours later.

‘You were looking for me, Cap?’ asked the sergeant.

Something about his sophomoric smile burned right through Danny.

‘You blew the parameters of the test,’ Danny told him. ‘You screwed the whole stinking thing up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Those were supposed to be shrapnel grenades. Your team would have been dead.’

‘No, we were far enough away. I made sure of that.’

‘You ran right through the smoke,’ said Danny. ‘That wouldn’t have happened in real life. You would never have made it in time.’

Boston shrugged.

‘I don’t like your attitude, Sergeant,’ said Freah.

‘Captain – don’t you preach that we ought to use our heads?’

‘Go on. Dismissed. Go.’

‘But – ’

‘Out!’

Danny pretended not to see him shake his head.

Brunei 8 October 1997, (local) 0900

As Mack pulled himself out of the A-37B’s cockpit, the fatigue that had been trailing him the whole flight jumped out and wrapped itself around his neck. The sun beat down on the concrete apron, and the humidity hung around him like the thick steam of a shower room. Mack had originally planned to go home and take a nap after debriefing the training session, but the morning’s developments meant there would be no rest for the weary; quite the contrary. The sultan would undoubtedly be wondering what was going on and expect a personal briefing, as would Prince bin Awg. The central defense ministry – a collection of service heads and other military advisors, including Mack – would also be looking for information.

The EB-52 banked overhead, preparing to land. Mack turned back toward the runway, watching the big plane swing in. It wobbled slightly – obviously one of his people was at the stick. Still, the landing was solid. All in all, they were making progress.

Slow progress, but progress.

‘’Scuse me,’ said a woman’s voice behind him. ‘You Mack Smith?’

Mack turned, surprised to hear what sounded like an American accent.

‘You’re the minister of defense?’ said the woman.

‘Deputy minister of defense – air force,’ said Mack, giving his official title. ‘Such as it is.’

He might not have added the last comment if the woman had been anything other than, well, plain, though plain didn’t quite cover it. She was somewhere over twenty-one and under forty, five-four, on the thin side. Her short hair had a slight curl to it, and that was the nicest thing you could say about her looks. She wore a pair of jeans and a touristy blue shirt.

‘I’m McKenna,’ she said, thrusting out her hand.

‘McKenna is who?’ said Mack.

‘Pilot. You were looking for contract pilots? Does it help that I can speak Malaysian?’

She reeled off a few sentences in the native language, which was shared by Brunei and its island neighbors. Mack hadn’t been here long enough to understand more than a few words; he thought he recognized the phrase for ‘have a nice day,’ but that was about it.

‘I think you have the wrong idea,’ said Mack. ‘I’m putting together a combat air force. The civilian airline is still on its own.’

‘Well no shit,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve flown F/A-18s for the Royal Canadian Air Force, and for the last year I’ve been a contract pilot for a horse’s ass of an outfit trying to sell third-hand Russian-made crates of crap that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in. That light your f-ing fire?’ said McKenna.

Well, she could talk like a pilot at least, thought Mack.

‘I don’t have any F/A-18s,’ he told her.

‘I can fly anything,’ she said. ‘Ask Prince bin Awg. He let me fly his MiG-19 and his Sabre last year. We went at it a bit and I waxed his butt good. I’d love to get behind the wheel of one of those,’ she added, thumbing toward the Megafortress, which was just heading toward its parking spot in front of the hangar on the left.

‘It doesn’t have a wheel. It’s got a stick, like a real airplane,’ said Mack. ‘They put it in when they upgraded it.’

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