people – he had a few kids who could strip a jet engine with their eyes shut and get it back together, but he needed more, more, more.
‘Excuse me, Minister.’
Mack turned to find one of his maintenance officers, a friendly but sad-sacked sort named Major Brown, who was descended from a nineteenth century British regent or some such thing.
‘You can just call me Mack. You don’t need to use my title,’ Mack told him for the hundredth time.
Brown’s attempt at a smile looked more forlorn than his frown.
‘We have only a week’s worth of fuel supply left, sir. You asked me to bring it to your attention.’
‘Did you put through that requisition or whatever the paperwork was?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did we get it?’
‘No, sir.’ Brown explained that simply forwarding a form into the morass that was the Brunei defensive forces purchasing system was hardly enough to elicit a yawn, let alone needed fuel supplies. Mack had heard some variation of this lecture three times a day since taking this job nearly a month ago.
‘I want you to go over there tomorrow and baby-sit the damn request,’ said Mack. ‘We need a ninety-day supply of fuel at a bare minimum.’
‘Where?’
‘Wherever you have to go. No – bypass the stinking bureaucracy. Go to the central defense ministry office and tell the chief of staff I sent you.’
Brown blanched. Things in the kingdom of Brunei were done by strict protocol. A mere major, or even a general of insufficient breeding, did not talk to the chief of staff, who like most people of importance was related to the sultan.
‘All right,’ said Mack, recognizing the look. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘If I go to the finance office, perhaps I can get an expeditious result.’
Two weeks ago, Mack would have asked why Brown would have to go to the finance office to get something as simple as a fuel order sent up the line. Now he knew that the explanation would not clarify anything.
‘Do your best,’ he told Brown. ‘We’re all set for the exercise, right?’
‘An hour ago, sir.’
‘You’re a good man, Brown,’ said Mack. ‘Do your best on the fuel thing.’
‘Perhaps if you spoke to the chief of staff yourself.’
‘I intend on kicking his butt if I ever see it,’ said Mack under his breath.
While Mack and Brown had been talking, two other members of Mack’s staff had approached. One was his administrative assistant, Suzanne Souzou, who had a thick wad of folders in her hand. The other was his director of operations, a Brunei of Chinese extraction named Han Chou.
‘Miss Souzou first,’ said Mack. He smiled at Han, who was offended by the fact that a woman was given priority. ‘Beauty before brains.’
‘You need to sign these,’ said his secretary. ‘The interviews are set up.’
‘Which interviews?’
‘The contract people to fill your temporary positions?’
‘Yeah, okay. Right. Good.’
‘You will need to sign these or the men won’t get paid.’
Mack flipped through the folders; it would take him more than an hour to sign them all. He’d tried telling her two weeks ago to sign for him, but that, too, was a major breach of Brunei etiquette.
‘All right. I’ll leave them on your desk first thing in the morning. Good night.’
Souzou flashed a big smile before turning and heading back to the car that had brought her. Mack admired her walking style before turning to Han, who bowed stiffly and handed him an envelope.
‘Uh, I don’t get it,’ said Mack, taking the envelope.
Han said nothing.
‘This isn’t a resignation, is it?’
Han still refused to speak.
‘Yo, Han, my man. My main man – you can’t leave. We’re just getting going. Come on. We’re going places, my friend. Going places.’
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
