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 love to get behind the wheel of one of those,’ she added, thumbing toward the Megafortress, which was just heading toward its parking spot in front of the hangar on the left.
‘It doesn’t have a wheel. It’s got a stick, like a real airplane,’ said Mack. ‘They put it in when they upgraded it.’
‘Well kick ass then,’ said McKenna.
Mack started toward the hangar to change, and McKenna fell in alongside him.
‘So? Am I hired?’ she asked.
‘Hired for what?’
‘For a pilot.’
‘What Russian planes did you fly?’
‘Anything and everything.’
‘MiG-29s?’ asked Mack.
‘Do it in my sleep.’
‘How about Su-27s?’
‘One or two.’
‘You fly them around here?’
‘Nah.’
‘Out of Labuan?’
‘Are you kidding? The Malaysians don’t operate jets out of there.’
‘Ever?’
‘About six months ago we tried to sell a pair of MiG-29s,’ said McKenna. ‘We brought them to Kuching at the far south of Borneo from the peninsula to demonstrate some of the changes that extended their range. But no one was buying.’
‘What about the Indonesians? You fly Sukhois out here for them?’
‘For the Indonesians?’ McKenna laughed. ‘Malaysia, Indonesia – their governments aren’t on Borneo,’ said McKenna. ‘You have to sell where the money is.’
‘You haven’t flown Su-27s on Borneo at all?’
She shook her head.
‘You hear of either country having them?’
‘You’d know better than me, Minister.’
Mack stopped. ‘Yeah, cut the shit. They have them?’
McKenna examined his face for a moment before answering. ‘Indonesia doesn’t have anything newer than Northrop F-5s. The Malaysian Royal Air Force has MiG-29s and F/A-18s over in West Malaysia, near the capital of Kuala Lumpur. Most of what my boss sold was used and it’s hard to buy used when you’ve been buying new. Her dealings with the Malaysians were mostly for ammunition and some avionics spare parts.’
‘I was jumped by two Su-27s this morning,’ said Mack.
‘Get out of town.’
Mack smiled sardonically. ‘They came up out of the southwest, from Malaysian territory, turned on their targeting gear to scare me, and took off.’
‘They scared you?’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Gave them the finger and took their pictures,’ he said. ‘I want to figure out who they are.’
‘I’ll look at it for you if you want.’
Mack shrugged. It couldn’t hurt, though most likely it wouldn’t help, either.
‘They could have come out of Kuching,’ admitted McKenna. ‘But it’s a good hike to get up here, over five hundred miles. And your spies would have told you they were there, wouldn’t they have?’
‘Who says I have spies there?’
‘You have spies everywhere,’ said McKenna. ‘Dragonfly, huh? You would’ve been dead meat.’
‘What, from a couple of Sukhois? Give me a break,’ said Mack.
‘Depends on the pilot,’ said McKenna, her voice only a bit conciliatory. ‘If it were me, I’d’ve waxed your fanny.’
‘If you were in the Sukhoi?’
‘Either
