Read Online Armageddon by Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim DeFelice, Dale Brown
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a smile. “One of my best men. We try to train them to think outside of the box”
“Or the robot,” said the congressman.
Danny did his best to laugh along with them, ignoring the dagger eyes from the army people.
Boston was waiting for him in his office when he finally made it over there two hours later.
“You were looking for me, Cap?” asked the sergeant. Something about his sophomoric smile burned right through Danny.
“You blew the parameters of the test,” Danny told him. “You screwed the whole stinking thing up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those were supposed to be shrapnel grenades. Your team would have been dead.”
“No, we were far enough away. I made sure of that”
“You ran right through the smoke,” said Danny. “That wouldn’t have happened in real life. You would never have made it in time.”
Boston shrugged.
“I don’t like your attitude. Sergeant,” said Freah.
“Captain—don’t you preach that we ought to use our heads?”
“Go on. Dismissed. Go”
“But—”
“Out!”
Danny pretended not to see him shake his head.
Brunei
8 October 1997, (local) 0900
As Mack pulled himself out of the A-37B’s cockpit, the fatigue that had been trailing him the whole flight jumped out and wrapped itself around his neck. The sun beat down on the concrete apron, and the humidity hung around him like the thick steam of a shower room. Mack had originally planned to go home and take a nap after debriefing the training session, but the morning’s developments meant there would be no rest for the weary; quite the contrary. The sultan would undoubtedly be wondering what was going on and expect a personal briefing, as would Prince bin Awg. The central defense ministry—a collection of service heads and other military advisors, including Mack—would also be looking for information.
The EB-52 banked overhead, preparing to land. Mack turned back toward the runway, watching the big plane swing in. It wobbled slightly—obviously one of his people was at the stick. Still, the landing was solid. All in all, they were making progress.
Slow progress, but progress.
“ ‘Scuse me,” said a woman’s voice behind him. “You Mack Smith?”
Mack turned, surprised to hear what sounded like an American accent.
“You’re the minister of defense?” said the woman.
“Deputy minister of defense—air force,” said Mack, giving his official title. “Such as it is.”
He might not have added the last comment if the woman had been anything other than, well, plain, though plain didn’t quite cover it. She was somewhere over twenty-one and under forty, five-four, on the thin side. Her short hair had a slight curl to it, and that was the nicest thing you could say about her looks. She wore a pair of jeans and a touristy blue shirt.
“I’m McKenna,” she said, thrusting out her hand.
“McKenna is who?” said Mack.
“Pilot. You were looking for contract pilots? Does it help that I can speak Malaysian?”
She reeled off a few sentences in the native language, which was shared by Brunei and its island neighbors. Mack hadn’t been here long enough to understand more than a few words; he thought he recognized the phrase for “have a nice day,” but that was about it.
“I think you have the wrong idea,” said Mack. “I’m putting together a combat air force. The civilian airline is still on its own”
“Well no shit,” said the woman. “I’ve flown F/A-18s for the Royal Canadian Air Force, and for the last year I’ve been a contract pilot for a horse’s ass of an outfit trying to sell third-hand Russian-made crates of crap that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in. That light your f-ing fire?” said McKenna.
Well, she could talk like a pilot at least, thought Mack.
“I don’t have any F/A-18s,” he told her.
“I can fly anything,” she said. “Ask Prince bin Awg. He let me fly his MiG-19 and his Sabre last year. We went at it a bit and I waxed his butt good. I’d
“Or the robot,” said the congressman.
Danny did his best to laugh along with them, ignoring the dagger eyes from the army people.
Boston was waiting for him in his office when he finally made it over there two hours later.
“You were looking for me, Cap?” asked the sergeant. Something about his sophomoric smile burned right through Danny.
“You blew the parameters of the test,” Danny told him. “You screwed the whole stinking thing up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those were supposed to be shrapnel grenades. Your team would have been dead.”
“No, we were far enough away. I made sure of that”
“You ran right through the smoke,” said Danny. “That wouldn’t have happened in real life. You would never have made it in time.”
Boston shrugged.
“I don’t like your attitude. Sergeant,” said Freah.
“Captain—don’t you preach that we ought to use our heads?”
“Go on. Dismissed. Go”
“But—”
“Out!”
Danny pretended not to see him shake his head.
Brunei
8 October 1997, (local) 0900
As Mack pulled himself out of the A-37B’s cockpit, the fatigue that had been trailing him the whole flight jumped out and wrapped itself around his neck. The sun beat down on the concrete apron, and the humidity hung around him like the thick steam of a shower room. Mack had originally planned to go home and take a nap after debriefing the training session, but the morning’s developments meant there would be no rest for the weary; quite the contrary. The sultan would undoubtedly be wondering what was going on and expect a personal briefing, as would Prince bin Awg. The central defense ministry—a collection of service heads and other military advisors, including Mack—would also be looking for information.
The EB-52 banked overhead, preparing to land. Mack turned back toward the runway, watching the big plane swing in. It wobbled slightly—obviously one of his people was at the stick. Still, the landing was solid. All in all, they were making progress.
Slow progress, but progress.
“ ‘Scuse me,” said a woman’s voice behind him. “You Mack Smith?”
Mack turned, surprised to hear what sounded like an American accent.
“You’re the minister of defense?” said the woman.
“Deputy minister of defense—air force,” said Mack, giving his official title. “Such as it is.”
He might not have added the last comment if the woman had been anything other than, well, plain, though plain didn’t quite cover it. She was somewhere over twenty-one and under forty, five-four, on the thin side. Her short hair had a slight curl to it, and that was the nicest thing you could say about her looks. She wore a pair of jeans and a touristy blue shirt.
“I’m McKenna,” she said, thrusting out her hand.
“McKenna is who?” said Mack.
“Pilot. You were looking for contract pilots? Does it help that I can speak Malaysian?”
She reeled off a few sentences in the native language, which was shared by Brunei and its island neighbors. Mack hadn’t been here long enough to understand more than a few words; he thought he recognized the phrase for “have a nice day,” but that was about it.
“I think you have the wrong idea,” said Mack. “I’m putting together a combat air force. The civilian airline is still on its own”
“Well no shit,” said the woman. “I’ve flown F/A-18s for the Royal Canadian Air Force, and for the last year I’ve been a contract pilot for a horse’s ass of an outfit trying to sell third-hand Russian-made crates of crap that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy in. That light your f-ing fire?” said McKenna.
Well, she could talk like a pilot at least, thought Mack.
“I don’t have any F/A-18s,” he told her.
“I can fly anything,” she said. “Ask Prince bin Awg. He let me fly his MiG-19 and his Sabre last year. We went at it a bit and I waxed his butt good. I’d
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