He grabbed the rifle from one of the men nearby and stepped but as another aircraft passed, emptying the magazine.
McKenna watched her wingman’s bombs fall on target and took her plane further east, where a fresh clump of white-pajamas ran for the wall. She pressed the trigger and the Dragonfly’s gat began spinning, drawing a red line through the scattering sea of white-clad fanatics. She stayed on the trigger a bit too long, and pulled off into a thick cloud of smoke; she completely lost track of where she was.
By the time she cleared she had flown out of the capital and was now over the lagoon-city in the bay. She regrouped with her wingman, who sounded as if he were hyperventilating after his successful bomb run.
The situation in the palace was growing desperate. Several hundred guerillas had attacked the compound; there were less than fifty army defenders, along with some plainclothes security and a dozen or so policemen. Reinforcements were engaged in a fierce fight at a guard post outside the city; it was unlikely they could reach the palace to prevent its being taken.
The sultan had strapped a gun on his side and was with the army commander inside.
McKenna started back toward the compound. The guerillas were clumped at one end of the water beyond the highway, but did not yet control the roadway.
“Get a helicopter over here on the double and get the sultan the hell out,” McKenna told her controller back at the airport. “We’ll cover the approach.”
“Helicopter is forty minutes away.”
“Forty minutes!”
“It’s coming up from Tutong,” said the controller.
Smoke began pouring out of the side of the ministry building. “Can you get some sort of boat in to make a rescue?” McKenna asked.
“The navy is working on that.”
That wasn’t going to do. White-pajamas were swarming all over the place. McKenna tipped downward and spit shells at them, but she barely made a dent. The Dragonfly rocked as it took a few bullets in the right wing.
“Yo, ground FAC, what’s your situation?” she asked as she recovered on the city side of the compound.
“Under fire.”
“The sultan there?”
“Yes. We’re going to retreat to the south.”
“Negative! Negative!” she said, catching sight of three pickup trucks filled with white-pajamas. “No, listen, can you get out to the highway near the main entrance?”
“Maybe”
“Get the sultan there” She spun back around, sizing up the roadway. It was straight, relatively flat, and unobstructed — if you didn’t count the two burning cars about thirty yards from the palace gate. “Push the cars off to the side and wait,” she said.
“For what?”
“Just get those cars out of the way.”
Chapter 41
Mack turned the helm over to his copilot and undid his restraints, stretching as he got out of the pilot’s seat. One advantage the Megafortress had over an F-15 — a working galley at the rear of the flightdeck.
Not to mention a microwave and a convenience area, otherwise known as a john. All the amenities of modern life.
The Sparrow had worked well enough for Mack to set the arms dealer down in one piece — and to order another dozen, as well as some heavier arms for his ground soldiers. The first variants of the Sparrow had seen action in Vietnam, where they had proved rather disappointing. The latter versions, however, were considerably more successful.
Unfortunately, the ones they had just bought were early models. Mack knew that some of the failures were due to pilot training — Naval aviators had been behind the triggers, ‘nuf said in his book. But even an air force jock with an oversized ego like Mack Smith had to admit that the hardware wasn’t quite on par with the AMRAAM, let alone Dreamland’s improved version of the AMRAAM, the AMRAAM-plus, also known as the Scorpion.
On the other hand, they were better than no arrows at all.
Mack had a drink of water and went and checked with his men downstairs, giving them all a thumbs-up for a job well done.
“How we looking, Jalan?” he asked his copilot when he returned to the flightdeck.
“On course, sir. Estimated time of arrival is now two hours and three minutes.”
Mack brought up the course screen on the configurable display at the left side of his dash. The wall of instruments that constituted his “office” was infinitely configurable, constructed from a thick layer of touch-sensitive chips. Nearly every Megafortress pilot found it easiest to use a preset one, which divided the dash into large panels of multi-use and devoted displays. Mack had a little trouble with the course module, and it took a minute to get the large-area map he wanted, showing the large island of Borneo and the surrounding water. He then double tapped the compass icon with his finger, and drew the course he wanted.
“Compute,” he told the computer, and a window opened in the screen showing what it would take to patrol the eastern portion of the island where the Sukhois were.
It was a detour, but a strategic detour. He’d have plenty of fuel — as long as he cut over Malaysian territory to get home. “Jalan, we have a new course,” said Mack.
“Yes, sir,” said the copilot, who brought it up on his own screen. He studied it for a moment. “Minister, should I alert Ground to the changes?”
“I don’t believe we’re in range to notify Ground,” said Mack.
“Sir?”
“Let’s stay silent com for a while,” said Mack. “We’re only going to add about an hour to our flight plan, maybe even a little less,” he added, putting his hand to the throttle bar.
Chapter 42
The men who had put pencil to paper and designed the Cessna Dragonfly some forty years before had set out to accomplish some deceptively modest goals. They wanted to create a sturdy, predictable aircraft that didn’t cost all that much to operate, and yet could provide a novice pilot with a suitable learning environment, one that would help him transition to the hot jets at the time. They surely did not envision that their aircraft — beefed up, to be sure, but still the same basic design — would not only be flying as the century came to a close but would be doing so in combat situations.
And surely they never envisioned doing what McKenna intended as she dropped low toward the highway that spanned the waterfront outside the palace.
The A-37B’s wings were just a hair under thirty-six feet wide — short maybe for an airplane, but a bit wide for this roadway. But McKenna judged that she could make it as long as she stuck to the left side of the road as she came in.
Problem was, that was where they were pushing the wrecked cars.
Something flashed at the right side of the aircraft as she approached. The explosion was a good distance away but McKenna realized she couldn’t afford the luxury of a second approach; she might make it down only to be swarmed by the guerillas.
“FAC, where’s the sultan?” she asked.
“Ready! Ready!”
“Push that other car out of there, way off the road!” she said. “And get down. I’m coming in.”
McKenna gave the throttle a light tap for luck then pushed in for her landing. She touched down slightly right of where she wanted to, but still had enough clearance to get by the light poles. The men pushing the car ahead saw her coming and gave the vehicle one last shove before throwing themselves out of the way; her wing cleared the fender by perhaps three feet, which as far as she was concerned was a country mile.
As the Dragonfly rolled to a stop, McKenna popped the top; she pushed her feet up and saw three men in suits running toward her. The sultan, a trim man in his early sixties, athletic and with a movie star’s face, appeared at the side of the aircraft. He said something, but although the A-37 had many assets, quiet engines were not one of them. McKenna shouted at him to get in; he pulled himself over the side and practically fell into place as she got the plane moving again. Bullets were exploding against the concrete nearby; she saw the shadow of her wingman pass overhead, suppressing some of the ground fire from the seawall on the left. The ground began to shake with explosions; McKenna reasoned that they were either very large or very close, or both.