“For the glory of Allah,” said Sahurah.
The imam smiled and got back into the car.
Chapter 48
McKenna crouched amid the rocks as the speedboat cut its engine and coasted toward the shoreline. The two Brunei policemen with her started to rise.
“No,” she said sharply. “Wait until we’re sure of them.”
The men immediately dropped back into a crouch. McKenna picked up her binoculars as the speedboat turned parallel to the shoreline, drifting for a moment. There were five men in it, all armed with large guns — machine-guns, she thought, something on the order of Minimis, the Belgian weapons known in the U.S. as M249s.
The man at the wheel was bin Awg.
“All right,” she told the two policemen. “Carefully.”
As the men moved down to the water, McKenna worked her glasses up and down the shoreline, making sure no one had managed to sneak past the guards she’d posted. Two dozen members of the Brunei police force had rallied to the small camp at the very tip of the country. McKenna’s wing-man had recommended the old airfield when it became clear they couldn’t land at the airport; until today it had mostly been used by helicopters and very light aircraft. The strip was barely wide enough for the A-37Bs. It was long, at least, and, if you ignored two mud holes at the right side about a quarter of the way from the northern end, smooth and solid. She thought she could get the Dragonflies off it with a full or nearly full load of fuel and weapons. Of course, to do that, she’d need jet fuel.
Ammunition would be nice, as well.
McKenna waited until Prince bin Awg was ashore before going down to greet him.
“The sultan is here?” asked the prince.
“He’s fine”
“He must leave now,” said bin Awg. “I’ve arranged safe haven in the Philippines.”
“Why?” said McKenna. She headed for the trail back to the camp.
“You don’t understand. He’s in great danger.”
“Of course I understand. But his duty is to liberate his kingdom and protect his people,” said McKenna.
“His duty is to preserve himself while we do that,” said bin Awg. His strides lengthened as he found the trail.
“I disagree,” said McKenna.
“It’s not up to you”
“Or you.”
The prince argued with his uncle for more than a half hour, but the sultan would not be convinced. The only concession he made was that he would not personally use a rifle unless desperate measures were called for.
McKenna — who heard the argument through the thin walls of the office they had taken as their headquarters — wasn’t sure whether those conditions might not be met at any moment. They were getting different reports from the radio and the one telephone line that remained working. Guerillas — Islamic terrorists who had been operating against Malaysia until a few days before — had taken over the capital and much of the northern portion of the country. While a good number of Brunei policemen and soldiers had fought bravely, the country had largely been taken by surprise. Sadly, a number of government officials had been less than brave, fleeing their posts at the first alarm.
Brunei was by nature a land of peace. That was its greatest problem now — when the unthinkable came, it was difficult to respond.
McKenna worried about Mack Smith and the Megafortress. She assumed that he had turned around once he saw the airport had been taken over, but in the confusion there was no way to know.
The sultan came to the door of the small room he had adopted as his headquarters and called in McKenna, along with the local police chief, who had rallied his men to the camp.
“The prince and I have discussed his request, but I am staying with my people where I belong;” announced the sultan in Malaysian.
“Good,” said McKenna.
Bin Awg frowned but told the others what he knew of the situation in the rest of the country. Small army and police units were continuing to resist in the area south of the capital. Many men had gone underground and were said to be loyal, waiting only for leadership. The army’s third brigade had been untouched by the first wave of the attacks, and had set up a defensive perimeter around Medit in the southern part of the country, where it had been conducting maneuvers. It had armored personnel carriers and reconnaissance vehicles. Additional units were in control of Sukang, but were under heavy fire.
The navy had lost its two Russian patrol ships as well as two other smaller coastal patrol boats. Some of the remaining vessels had rendezvoused in the South China Sea under command of the assistant defense minister for the navy.
The prince recommended that the sultan join up with the main army group, which was roughly fifty miles away across a rough jungle.
“We may be able to bring in a helicopter at nightfall,” said the prince.
“How about getting some fuel for my airplanes?” said McKenna. “We can support the troops there.”
“I don’t know if we can find any. Fuel is hard to come by.”
McKenna told him about the tanker filled with jet fuel that Mack had arranged; it should be nearly offshore by now. In the meantime, fuel could be purchased from the Indonesians in the south.
“Get it up here by boat. We’ll carry it up to the airfield. Or better yet, use those helicopters you have. Get us some ammunition for the guns and we’re in business.”
Prince bin Awg started to speak, but the sultan cut him off. “Make it so,” he said.
The prince bowed his head.
Chapter 49
Mack Smith folded his arms and pushed his back against the chair in the small room in the basement of the civilian terminal building. The side of his face had swelled where he’d been hit earlier; his lower lip sagged and his nose felt like it had been broken. But he was otherwise physically okay.
His pride sure hurt like hell. Taken by surprise on the tarmac by jerks in white pajamas with beach towels on their hair — how the hell was he ever going to live that embarrassment down?
Mack had been interviewed twice; in both cases the interviewers’ English was so poor that he hardly understood them when they asked his name, let alone their other questions. The men ended up shouting at him, but seemed under some restraint not to hit him. He’d simply waited them out until they left.
Mack figured that eventually the sultan would rally his troops and retake the airport. The question was how to survive in the meantime. He’d been a prisoner before — and in fact, had been captured by real Islamic madmen and transported all the way from Somalia to Libya. These guys were amateurs in comparison.
The hallway outside the room was carpeted, and Mack had no warning that someone was approaching until the door opened. A thin man in his mid- or late twenties entered the room. Unlike the others, he wore khaki fatigues and had on a bulletproof vest. He seemed confident, his step deliberate. Two of the pajama-boys with submachine guns came in behind him, standing by the door and pointing their weapons at Mack.
“You are an American:’ said the man. His English had an accent that sounded similar to the accents the Brunei officials Mack dealt with had; it was polished, and vaguely British.
“That’s right,” said Mack. “What are you?”
“I am Commander Sahurah Niu,” said the man. It was a simple declaration, not a brag. “Your name is what?”
“Mack Smith.”
“Smith is a very common name.”