Mack shrugged. “That’s what I’m told.”
“You are a pilot?”
“Sure”
“You flew the large aircraft?”
“Yup.” There was no use lying about that.
“Yup?”
“Means yes,” said Mack.
Sahurah’s eyes seemed to search Mack’s face, as if he were trying to look for clues that his prisoner could be trusted.
Yeah, trust me, Mack thought to himself. Trust me so I can screw you big time.
Once I come up with a plan.
“The big aircraft — it is a bomber?” asked the man.
“No,” said Mack. He wasn’t sure how much information Jalan or the other pilots would give the guerillas, so he had to be careful with his lies. But he wanted to steer them away from the possibility of using the aircraft as an offensive weapon.
On the other hand, if they thought it might be useful, maybe they’d put him in the cockpit A few high-g maneuvers and he’d be free.
“It’s a radar plane,” said Mack. “It, uh — the radar searches for other aircraft. It’s like an early warning system. It can be very useful when you’re under attack.”
“It contains no weapons?”
“Defensive weapons,” said Mack. “It can defend itself.”
Sahurah changed direction, asking how long Mack had been in the country.
“Couple of weeks,” he said.
“Where did the sultan go?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“We control the city. We will find him. When will the Americans come?”
“Which Americans?” Mack asked.
“Your marines,” said Sahurah.
“Any second,” said Mack.
Sahurah turned to one of the men at the door and said something in Malaysian. The man nodded and left.
“You will be fed,” he told Mack. “A cot will be brought. If you are mistreated, the man who does so will be punished”
“That’s awful nice of you,” said Mack, unable to control his sarcasm.
“No, it is merely the way the law directs a prisoner be treated,” said Sahurah, interpreting the words, not the tone. “I remind you that if you attempt to escape, you will be executed.”
“That’s the law, too?”
“Yes,” said Sahurah. He bowed his head slightly, then turned and left the room.
The pain in his head was so intense that Sahurah had to pause in the hallway and rub the sides of his temples in an effort to get it to stop. He had much to do and could not afford to stop now, even for such pain. He needed to find men who could tell him about the aircraft here; he needed to survey weapons, to prepare defenses for a counterattack, to make sure all of the brothers were being fed, to find a way to welcome the new recruits who were sure to pour in to their lines now that the decadent order had been swept away.
The Brunei pilot and the others who had been with Smith had been shot in the cockpit unwisely by the brothers who took the plane. Apparently one of the soldiers who had followed Smith down the ladder had started to fire, and from that point on there had been little discipline among the attackers. It was a miracle that the American had been spared, though Sahurah did not know what exactly was to be done with him; surely he could not be trusted in the aircraft.
“Commander, the Malaysians who were sent to man the antiaircraft weapons are complaining about their air-conditioning.”
The voice sounded as if it came from the opposite end of the hallway, but when Sahurah turned he found the man who had spoken just a few feet away.
“What is their complaint?” asked Sahurah.
“The air-conditioning needs to function or their equipment will not,” said the man.
“Find Salem the Yemen and tell him that a technician is needed to repair it.”
“Yes, Commander;” said the man, spinning away immediately.
Sahurah once more closed his eyes. He wanted to rest. But God did not want him to, not yet. And he must accept the wishes of his Lord. He took a breath that filled his chest, then resumed his inspection of the airport.
Chapter 50
Zen waited as the computer that helped him fly the U/MF-3 Flighthawk counted down the time to launch from its mothership, the EB-52 Pennsylvania. Numbers drained in the main control screen, which replaced the visor in Zen’s helmet. The projections helped make it seem as if he were inside the small aircraft, and in fact he generally felt as if he were, as he flew. The screen was divided in half; the top showed a video supplied by one of three Flighthawk sensors at the front of the airplane, usually an optical feed, though he could select an infrared or synthetic radar view instead. The panel below this main screen was divided into three different views. The one at the right showed his instruments, or rather a summary of those important at any given moment. The one in the middle was a “sit rep,” or a situation representation, a kind of God’s-eye view that showed the Flighthawk, its mother ship, and anything else within fifty miles. The data was actually provided by a link with the EB-52, constantly checked and updated by the Flighthawk communications and control computer, dubbed C3. At the far left, Zen had a view synthesized from the long-distance radar feed from Penn’s AWACS-style radar, also presented as a God’s-eye view. He could change the displays as needed, but preferred this arrangement when he was just flying one aircraft.
The Megafortress tilted its nose downward, beginning a shallow dive that helped increase the separation forces on the robot aircraft, making it easier to launch. The computer hit zero and Zen felt his body shifting exactly as if he were sitting in the tiny little bird that rushed from the wing. The engine flared and he nudged his stick forward and slightly to the left, diving into an arc that would take him toward the oil platform they had to survey.
“Hawk One is away,” he told Dog, who was piloting the mothership.
“Penn acknowledges.”
“Platform at ten miles. Approaching as planned.”
Zen put his finger against the throttle slide, notching down his power as he approached the platform. The structure had a pair of exposed decks about twenty feet from the waves. The decks ran around three sides. At the rear of the platform sat what amounted to a prefab ranch house at the top. The platform was smaller than those Zen had seen in the Gulf of Mexico, and a bit less elaborate — there was only one satellite dish, for instance, and no helipad. The flat roof of the trailer was just big enough for the Quick Bird helicopters the Whiplash team was riding in.
There were no ships or boats nearby. Zen took the Flighthawk through an orbit about seven thousand feet over the platform, descending gradually to allow the infrared camera in the Flighthawk to get a good look.
“Clean so far,” Zen told Dog.
“We copy,” said Dog, who was looking at the feed on his own display.
Two more passes and he saw nothing.
“I’m going to clear Danny in,” said Dog. “Let’s head over toward Brunei International Airport and have a look at the Megafortress.”
“Roger that,” said Zen, starting to climb away from the ocean.
Chapter 51
The helicopter brought enough fuel for only one Dragonfly. McKenna decided she would use it to scout the jungle, then escort the helicopter to the stronghold. Assuming things went well, she’d take a run over the southern part of the kingdom and scout out positions for the army people at Medit and Sukang, where the last report had the army under constant fire.