‘Jeff, that’s terrible,’ Breanna told her husband. ‘Really, hon. I know you’re still upset. But cut the guy some slack.’
‘Why? He’s the supreme ruler, right? He’s in charge. Who else should take the heat?’
Breanna rolled her eyes. It was always obvious when he was upset – he got even crankier than normal. She turned to Kelly. ‘I don’t think he really insulted the sultan. And he has a point about the aircraft. Megafortresses are overkill.’
‘The sultan was insulted,’ said the state department rep. ‘Believe me, I could tell. You don’t understand this country.’
‘I do understand that we almost got killed,’ said Zen.
‘Weapons procurement is none of your business.’
‘I know more about those weapons than the sultan ever will. And I’ll tell you – Brunei doesn’t need them. They do need counter-insurgency aircraft. That’s what you should be selling them. Those people who attacked us yesterday are just the tip of the iceberg, I’ll bet.’
Kelly got up. ‘Please contact my office if you need anything else. Have a good flight home, Major.’
‘You were really rude,’ Breanna told him when Kelly was gone.
‘Come on. Kelly forgets whose side she’s on.’
‘She’s just trying to do her job. And I meant to the sultan. He’s a very nice man. Very charming.’
‘Aw, come on, Bree. He’s a dictator. Just because he calls himself sultan, you’re going to let him off?’
‘He’s very educated and civilized. He’s a hereditary ruler.’
‘So was King George, the guy we kicked out of America two hundred years ago, remember?’
‘I forgot your ancestors came over on the Mayflower.’
‘It was the Guernsey,’ said Zen. He wasn’t joking – his relatives had come over in the 1600s, landing in Virginia.
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to be more diplomatic,’ she insisted, taking her cup of tea. ‘You’re going to have to be more diplomatic if you want to make colonel.’
‘Why? Your dad doesn’t kiss ass.’
Breanna put her hand out and touched his arm. ‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey yourself.’
‘Let’s not fight.’
‘Who’s fighting?’
‘Okay.’
‘Want me to cancel my flight?’
Breanna looked at him. She did, actually. Not just for this afternoon – for weeks and months. She wanted him to stay here with her, stay in paradise.
Or something less than paradise. As long as they were together.
She’d been scared yesterday, worried what she would do if she found him dead there. Breanna had faced that fear before, but that didn’t make it easier – if anything, it seemed to be getting worse.
She wanted to tell him to stay. But he had a job to do. He was due back at Dreamland for a VIP demonstration.
‘I do want you to cancel your flight,’ she admitted finally. ‘But you better not. I’m okay.’ She put her hand down on his. ‘We have some time left. Let’s go back to the hotel.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said, stroking her fingertips as if they were the soft petals of a flower.
Outside Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia 1400
Sahurah Niu waited outside the hut, trying to clear his mind of all distraction. The mission, so long in the planning, had been an utter failure. The operation – the first launched by their group against Brunei instead of Malaysia, their long-time enemy – had resulted only in their own losses. The corrupt sultan and his puppet government would now prepare themselves against further attacks, and perhaps even work in concert with the Malaysians.
There was no way to take it back now. Regrets were useless. He must face the punishment that awaited him like a man.
An aide emerged from the hut and beckoned to Sahurah. He lowered his head and stepped inside, preparing himself with a silent prayer. His head throbbed, but he sturdied himself against the pain; he would find redemption in punishment, he decided. He would accept his punishment gladly.
The Saudi visitor sat beside the imam, legs crossed on the rug covering the dirt floor. Sahurah had met the Saudi a year before at the training camp in Afghanistan; he was a devout, humble man filled with fire against the Western corruptors and devils, as holy in his way as the imam who had been the spiritual and temporal leader of the movement on Borneo island for more than a decade. Sahurah had seen him arrive yesterday, but it was clear that the Saudi did not recognize him; he said nothing then, and he said nothing now, lowering himself humbly. It was unusual that another witnessed their talks, but perhaps that was intended as part of the punishment. Sahurah bowed his head and waited.
But the imam did not berate him. He asked instead if he would like something to drink.
Sahurah declined, trying to hide his surprise. He glanced at the Saudi, but then turned his gaze back to the rug in front of him.
‘The next phase of struggle has begun,’ said the imam. He spoke in Arabic for the benefit of their visitor, who did not speak Malaysian. ‘You will go to Kota Kinabalu, and carry a message. It has been arranged.’
Kota Kinabalu, on the coast below them, was a stronghold of the Malaysian government. It contained a police station and a small naval base. Until now, the imam had forbidden operations there – it was considered too well guarded by the Malaysian authorities.
He was being sent to become a martyr. For the first time in months, Sahurah felt truly happy.
‘You will meet with a Malaysian, and you will bring back a message,’ added the imam. ‘Specific instructions will meet you near your destination, as a precaution for your security. Do this successfully, and much glory will come to you. There will be other tasks.’
Sahurah struggled to contain his disappointment. He bowed his head, then rose and left the hut.
Dreamland 7 October 1997, (local) 0432
‘Dream Mover is approaching target area, preparing to launch probe units,’ the airborne mission commander told Danny Freah over the command circuit.
‘Acknowledged,’ said Danny.
‘Software’s up and running,’ said Jennifer Gleason, hunched over a laptop next to Danny in the MV-22 Osprey. ‘Ten seconds to air launch.’
‘Let’s get it going,’ whispered Danny under his breath.
‘Launching One. Launching Two,’ said the pilot.
Two winged canisters about twelve feet long dropped off the wings of the C-17. Their bodies looked more like squashed torpedoes than aircraft, but the unpowered rectangles were a cross between gliders and dump trucks. The canisters – at the moment they did not have an official name – were the delivery end of the Automated Combat Robot or ACR system, a cutting-edge force multiplier designed to augment the fighting abilities of small combat teams operating in hostile territory. As the canisters fell from the aircraft, two mission specialists aboard the C-17 took control of them, popping out winglets and initiating a controlled descent onto Dreamland Test Range C, five miles away.
Jennifer, monitoring the software that helped the specialists steer the canisters, began pumping her keyboard furiously as the screen flashed a red warning.