“Probably as a follow-on,” said Dog. “Depending on the situation. It’s volatile.”

“It is,” said Danny, who was munching on a chicken leg.

“We’re setting up camp at an oil platform, Jen. It’s not going to be a picnic.”

“I was in Iraq, remember?”

“We’ll bring the support team in once the situation has been assessed,” said Dog. “And an evaluation team.”

“I’ll be ready to take off in two hours,” said Jennifer, starting to leave.

“You won’t be needed until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest,” said Dog, pulling over the food. “Stay and have some dinner.”

Brunei

12 October 1997, (local) 0640

McKenna took a low pass over the palace compound. She saw a few figures moving near the building, but was moving far too fast to get a good read on what she was seeing.

“Dragon One to control—you have that forward-air-controller down there yet?” she asked as she pulled off. She wanted to get a handle on the ground situation and make sure she didn’t hit any of their own people.

“We’re working on it, Dragon One.”

“Well work harder,” she snapped. She watched her wing-mate come over the palace on the side near the sea. It didn’t appear as if anyone on the ground fired at him.

“Two, I’m going to take a real slow pass back over the dome,” she said. “Hang back and see if anyone fires at me. I want to get this sorted out”

The little Cessna poked her nose down toward the ground, settling down to a brisk walk over the compound at treetop level. This time McKenna saw several knots of men in what looked like white pajamas near the walls. These were obviously the guerillas.

Three bodies in plainclothes lay sprawled near the building. A green British Land Rover sat near the gate on the far side of the compound. McKenna saw a grenade explode near the vehicle. From this altitude, the shock of smoke appeared harmless, though she realized it was anything but. She saw a pair of vans parked on a side street, a large group of men in white near it.

The forward-air-controller finally came on over the police frequency. It was one of the security people who had been with Mack yesterday when he rescued her from the ministry. The man had received training in directing aircraft for attack, but it still took a few exchanges for her to work out where he was and vice versa.

“I’m going to hit those vans,” she told him once it was clear the government troops were not nearby. “Tell the officer in charge there.”

“Yes, yes, he says do it.”

McKenna tipped forward in her seat, pushing against the restraints as the ground flew through the optical sighting panel ahead of her. The wind was minimal, and as she came in from the water side she had a clear run at the vans. Still, the close quarters and her low altitude made the bombing run dangerous as well as complicated; for the first time since she’d arrived she saw tracers arcing in her directions. She hunched her body around the stick, ignoring them, ignoring everything but the slowly changing view and pipper marks in front of her eyes. The vans jerked into her crosshairs and she pickled, loosing all four bombs as she pulled back on the stick. Heavy flak erupted just off her left wing as she climbed. McKenna coaxed the Cessna upward as the air began percolating and rumbling with the exploding shells. She cleared right into the open air and saw her wingmate about a thousand feet above her and a quarter mile to the south.

“Two, where was that flak coming from?”

“Tank mounted weapon,” said the other pilot.

“One of ours?”

“Looks like.”

The weapon was apparently a Brunei army vehicle that had been stolen from its base. A Panhard M3 VDA, the French-built twenty-millimeter cannon had radar guidance but was apparently being operated by sight—otherwise McKenna would have been perforated. The gun was now being used to chew up the area in front of the highway at the entrance to the palace compound; guerillas were moving behind it.

“Two, can you get that gun?” McKenna asked.

“Roger that,” said the copilot.

“I’m going to cover your butt and clean up after your pass,” she added, working the A-37B around.

IT HAD GONE BETTER THAN SAHURAH HAD DARED IMAGINE. Besar, though clearly a degenerate, had pulled off the impossible and stolen the self-propelled cannon from under the noses of the army. Their main force was now in control of two of the four sides of the palace perimeter; inside, they were engaged in a battle with forces in the main ministry building. Once they took care of those forces, they could move on to the palace itself, using the roof of the ministry to lay down gunfire.

Two jets danced overhead. Sahurah looked up from his position as one of the planes dropped its bombs on the city-side and the Panhard anti-aircraft gun began firing. He wasn’t sure what the target was; Besar had a command station in that area but from where Sahurah stood he could see nothing.

One of his squad leaders motioned from the corner of the building. Sahurah ducked his head and ran forward, sliding down as he neared the man. The headache that had haunted him yesterday was gone and he had fresh hope—perhaps he would die today and become a martyr.

“Commander, the enemy has a machine-gun inside the building,” said the squad leader.

“Bring up the rocket-propelled grenades,” said Sahurah. Another jet passed overhead. Sahurah flinched, then felt himself flush with shame at his momentary cowardice. Human, perhaps, but a failing before the eyes of God.

He grabbed the rifle from one of the men nearby and stepped but as another aircraft passed, emptying the magazine.

MCKENNA WATCHED HER WINGMAN’S BOMBS FALL ON TARGET and took her plane further east, where a fresh clump of white-pajamas ran for the wall. She pressed the trigger and the Dragonfly’s gat began spinning, drawing a red line through the scattering sea of white-clad fanatics. She stayed on the trigger a bit too long, and pulled off into a thick cloud of smoke; she completely lost track of where she was.

By the time she cleared she had flown out of the capital and was now over the lagoon-city in the bay. She regrouped with her wingman, who sounded as if he were hyperventilating after his successful bomb run.

The situation in the palace was growing desperate. Several hundred guerillas had attacked the compound; there were less than fifty army defenders, along with some plainclothes security and a dozen or so policemen. Reinforcements were engaged in a fierce fight at a guard post outside the city; it was unlikely they could reach the palace to prevent its being taken.

The sultan had strapped a gun on his side and was with the army commander inside.

McKenna started back toward the compound. The guerillas were clumped at one end of the water beyond the highway, but did not yet control the roadway.

“Get a helicopter over here on the double and get the sultan the hell out,” McKenna told her controller back at the airport. “We’ll cover the approach.”

“Helicopter is forty minutes away.”

“Forty minutes!”

“It’s coming up from Tutong,” said the controller.

Smoke began pouring out of the side of the ministry building. “Can you get some sort of boat in to make a rescue?” McKenna asked.

“The navy is working on that.”

That wasn’t going to do. White-pajamas were swarming all over the place. McKenna tipped downward and spit shells at them, but she barely made a dent. The Dragonfly rocked as it took a few bullets in the right wing.

“Yo, ground FAC, what’s your situation?” she asked as she recovered on the city side of the compound.

“Under fire.”

“The sultan there?”

“Yes. We’re going to retreat to the south.”

“Negative! Negative!” she said, catching sight of three pickup trucks filled with white-pajamas. “No, listen, can you get out to the highway near the main entrance?”