ZEN WHEELED UP TO THE END OF THE LINE, SMIRKING at the Green Beret chef’s obvious discomfort. Hell, he was starting to like being a one-man freak show attraction.
Breanna’s attitude didn’t surprise him. At least she’d finally come out and admitted it.
One of the Delta operators had told him while he was waiting to use the john that she’d kicked butt on her mission. He was happy for her, damn proud in a way, even if she hadn’t given him a chance to tell her so.
They could be friends. He wanted that maybe, or something like that.
“Wild boar,” the Green Beret behind the makeshift lunch counter was saying. “I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it. Of course, you could have an MRE. Or oatmeal.”
“That boar. You catch it with your bare hands?” asked Zen.
“Sir? You think I’m nuts?”
“No, just making sure it’s sanitary,” said Zen. “Dish me up a heap. Come on, let’s go,” he added. “I have some planes to fly.”
“You fly planes?”
“Two,” said Zen. “At the same time.”
The sergeant spooned the food onto the dish carefully, undoubtedly convinced he was dealing with a psycho.
Which, Zen thought, might not be too far from the truth.
Sudan
23 October, 1540 local
THE RUSSIANS CALLED THE ANTONOV AN-14 “PCHELKA,” which meant, “Little Bee.” NATO called it “Clod.”
Both names were equally appropriate. The small but sturdy aircraft flew at just over a hundred knots, skimming the hills and rugged valleys of eastern Sudan. There were eight seats, including the pilot’s, but the Iranians had crammed seven soldiers in along with the prisoners, the pilot, and the Imam. The plane lumbered through the air, obviously complaining about its heavy load—which was all the heavier because it had been outfitted with bladder tanks in metal rigs that looked like blisters on the fuselage. Mack’s fatigue kept him from getting more than a rough idea of where they were; it was obvious they were flying west, but he couldn’t be sure whether they had gone beyond Ethiopia, and if so, how far. He kept dozing off, jostled back to consciousness by his guards and the pain in his side, though by now his ribs had hurt so long he was almost used to the ache. Finally they reached wherever they were supposed to reach; six soldiers in light brown uniforms met them as they taxied along what seemed to be a dirt road in front of some tents on a flat plain well beyond the mountains they’d gone over. While Mack and the others were hustled out of the Antonov, brown camo netting was thrown over the plane. A nearby group of scraggly cattle were herded around. The emaciated animals—they weren’t cows, exactly, at least not as Mack knew them—poked their noses toward the men curiously, but quickly lost interest.
The prisoners were led to a tent. Gunny and Howland lay down on the dirt floor, immediately curling up to sleep. Mack sat with his arms huddled around his knees, watching the shadows outside. Two guards sat in front of the tent; two others sat at the rear corners. Men and animals moved around them, seemingly at random.
Land this flat probably meant they were somewhere in Sudan. If what Howland had said was true, their next stop would be Libya. Most likely, they were hiding out until night, when the small, low-flying plane would be harder to detect.
Once they got to Libya, they’d be put on trial in an attempt to whip up public support for the Greater Islamic League, perhaps fomenting revolutions in Egypt and Saudi Arabia, or at least intimidating their governments sufficiently to get them to join the Iranians.
Damn unlikely.
Maybe not. Impossible for him to know. In any event, what happened in the wider world was largely irrelevant; what happened to him was what mattered.
Knife pulled his arms around his knees, digging the chain into the flesh. It made no sense to think about things he couldn’t control. But what else was there to think about?
Dreamland. The JSF. His career. Breanna Stockard. Zen.
Poor dumb Zen. Crippled.
Maybe Stockard hadn’t screwed up. Maybe he had been a good enough pilot, and just been nailed by bad luck. Like Mack.
Was it just luck, though? He’d never put much stock in luck, preferring to trust ability and effort. What a shock now to find they might not matter at all.
“You should rest, Major,” said the Imam. “You and I have a long journey ahead.”
Startled, Knife jerked around. The Iranian had come into the tent without his guards. He’d moved so silently he seemed almost to have materialized there.
“We will be leaving at dusk,” said the Iranian. His hands were folded in front of him; it was possible, probable, that he had his pistol in his sleeve, but it was not visible. In fact, he gave the impression not merely of being unarmed, but of being far removed from any conflict—far removed from here, as if he were in a mosque, preparing to pray or more likely to preach.
“How did it feel?” Smith asked.
The Imam’s eyes gave nothing away, yet he obviously knew that Mack was talking about shooting Jackson, for he answered, “Within Allah’s grasp, all is justified.”
“How do you know you’re in his grasp?”
“I know,” said the Iranian confidently.
“Why him and not me?” Mack asked.
“Your role has been ordained.” The Imam nodded, as if he had actually answered the question. He gazed at Mack as if he were a penitent seeking guidance. “You should not question your fate. You must learn to accept it.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You are feeling guilty that your soldier died. But he would have died eventually.”
“I’m not feeling guilty about anything.”
“When you can say that truthfully, you will be at peace,” said the Imam. He nodded again. “I pray the day will come.”
Mack felt a surge of anger, but something seemed to hold him in place, fatigue or perhaps something else. He wanted to ask how a murderer could have the gall to cite God as his justification, to pretend to be holy and wise. But he stayed fixed in place, unable to move.
“Submit yourself to your fate, and to the will of Allah,” said the Imam. “Then you will find peace.”
He stepped backward, leaving the tent.
Dreamland
23 October, 0800 local
AS REAMINGS WENT, IT WAS FIRST CLASS. FOUR GENERALS tag-teamed Bastian during the conference call, chewing him out relentlessly for sending the Megafortress to Africa.
And all he could say in his defense was—a second was on the way, with even more untested top-secret weaponry and a civilian scientist aboard.
Magnus especially was angry. “I spoke to you less than twenty-four hours ago,” said the general who’d earlier congratulated him for his JSF report. Though influential, he was actually the junior member of the chew-out team. “You sure as hell could have given me a heads-up.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“You, Colonel, should not think,” Magnus snapped.
Bastian was being treated as if he were a green-gilled tadpole airman, not the commander of the country’s most advanced weapons-testing facility. He bridled, but he kept his cool, holding his tongue as the generals continued to berate him. Because he knew—and they knew—that in the end, he’d been right. The Megafortress had made it possible for the downed F-117 to be destroyed. And, according to preliminary intelligence, Whiplash had just barely missed snatching the pilots back—again, thanks largely to the Megafortress. One major Somalian base had been smashed, two Iranian MiGs had been shot down, and two others apparently forced to ditch. The Iranian plan for a pan-Islamic rebellion against the West was falling apart, largely because he’d decided to send an “experimental” aircraft as a transport.
Well, more or less.
“The bottom line here, gentlemen,” said Ms. O’Day, finally rejoining the conference call after the others had vented for nearly twenty minutes, “is that we have a continuing situation. Colonel Bastian has helped us considerably. You and I may not approve of what he has done—and undoubtedly we may consider sanctions in the future. But at the moment, well, let’s make some lemonade here. His aircraft and personnel are under operational control of the Madcap Magician commander. I believe that’s where they should stay—with the local commanders, who are in the best position to know what they need to get the job done. Now if you want to reverse that, it’s possible. I will carry the recommendation personally to the President. I won’t support it, but I will relay it.”