It was debatable whether Mack’s attempt at camaraderie would have worked in the States, where someone at least would have understood the expressions he was using. The only effect it had on Han was to confuse him. Mack opened the letter reluctantly.
‘You’re really leaving me?’
Han’s English was heavily accented, but Mack got the gist of it. The new regime – Minister Mack – had brought too much change.
Mack waved his hand. ‘You’re free,’ he told him. ‘Go. Hit the road.’
Han bowed again. Mack simply shook his head. He was now down to four legitimate pilots, plus himself.
Breanna’s SUV appeared at the far end of the road, heading toward him. Mack waited with his hands on his hips, frowning as he saw that Zen was sitting in the front seat beside her. He’d shown up unannounced yesterday, but Breanna had insisted his visit wouldn’t interfere with the training schedule.
‘Captain,’ he said as she rolled down the window. ‘We’re running a little late.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Breanna. ‘We were detained.’
‘I’ll bet,’ he said, interpreting her words as a euphemism for sex.
‘We were at the police ministry,’ she said. ‘We tried calling you.’
‘Police ministry? What’d you do? Get nailed for speeding?’
Mack listened, dumbfounded, as Breanna explained what had happened that afternoon on the beach. It seemed far-fetched. People here left their doors unlocked and keys in their cars.
‘This for real, Bree?’ he asked.
‘Bet your ass it was real,’ growled Zen from the other side.
‘Who were these jokers?’
‘Police weren’t sure,’ said Breanna. ‘Possibly guerillas from Malaysia trying to kidnap tourists. There are Muslim extremists trying to take over the Malaysian part of the island.’
‘Not on that beach. That’s the prince’s beach,’ said Mack.
‘Maybe they missed the sign,’ said Zen.
‘Maybe they were trying to get the prince,’ said Mack.
‘Police said that was impossible,’ said Breanna.
‘That’s because they don’t think it’s possible,’ said Mack. ‘They don’t think that way – they don’t think like you and me.’
‘Listen, about the exercise tonight, we’re going to have to call it off,’ said Breanna. ‘The State Department wants to interview me.’
‘What?’ said Mack.
‘They asked me to go over to see one of their intelligence people for a debriefing. I told them fine.’
‘Well, sure, after the exercise.’
Breanna shook her head. ‘Sorry. We’re already late. And I haven’t had anything to eat, either.’
Mack had enough experience with Breanna to know it was useless to argue. ‘How about tomorrow night?’
‘Fine,’ said Breanna.
‘Oh wait, I can’t do it tomorrow night. I have some dinner with the prince.’
‘Blow it off,’ said Zen sardonically.
Mack pretended he didn’t hear. ‘How about early the next morning, just before dawn? Say four or five?’
‘Dawn?’
‘Yeah, that would work,’ said Mack. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, Bree. You owe me.’
‘Owe you? How?’
‘I got you that beach,’ said Mack.
‘Oh there’s a debt to be repaid,’ said Zen.
‘I’ll do it. We’ll set it up tomorrow,’ said Breanna.
‘Great,’ said Mack. ‘Just great.’
Washington, D.C. 6 October 1997 (7 October Brunei), 0743
‘Hey, Colonel,’ said Jed Barclay, pulling up in front of the suburban motel where Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh ‘Dog’ Bastian had been waiting.
‘Sorry I’m running a little late.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Dog, aware that his voice probably suggested the opposite.
‘Want to grab a coffee?’ asked Barclay.
‘I had breakfast.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Barclay pulled out into the traffic. Though he looked like he belonged in college – if that – Jed was the National Security Council’s assistant director for technology and the right-hand man for national security advisor Philip Freeman. He was the unofficial go-between used by the president and the NSC for directing Dreamland’s ‘Whiplash’ operations, and just about Dog’s only real ally in Washington. The colonel felt bad about snapping at him, but he was in a foul mood; his daughter and son-in-law had been involved in some sort of incident in Brunei, of all places. While they were fine, the call he’d gotten a few hours ago about it had cost him the last sliver of sleep he’d been counting on before this morning’s meeting with the president. Brunei and Washington were exactly twelve hours apart; when it was day there it was night here, and vice versa.
‘Hotel okay?’ asked Jed.
‘Fine. Listen, I didn’t mean to bark at you there. I just don’t want to be late for the meeting.’
‘Well, we won’t be,’ said Jed. ‘I got a heads-up. The president is running behind.’
‘I thought I was his first appointment.’
‘You were. But they slid in some domestic stuff and the chief of staff called last night to slide back the appointment. We’re not on until nine-thirty. And given the way things usually go …’
Dog curled his hands in front of his chest. The president was the president, and you waited for him, not the other way around. And surely there were many important things on his plate.
But this wasn’t a good sign.
‘I didn’t have time for breakfast myself,’ added Jed.
‘Let’s get something then,’ said Dog, acceding.
Jed described the restaurant as a ‘coffee place,’ but if that was true, it was the fanciest coffee place Dog had ever been in. A hostess greeted them and escorted them across a thick, plush carpet to a table covered with three layers of thick linens. Dog recognized two senators and one of the aides to the vice president at different tables along the way.
‘The NSC’ll pay, don’t worry,’ said Jed before Dog opened the thick, leather-bound menu.
That prepared him, somewhat, for the prices. Dog told the waitress he just wanted coffee. She nodded, then turned to Jed. ‘Feta omelet. Light toast. Right?’ she asked.
Jed nodded.
‘You come here a lot?’ said Dog.
‘Uh, Mr Freeman does. And so, because of that, I do.’
‘He’s going to drop in on us?’
‘He might,’ admitted Jed.
‘You