Air Battle Force

Four

The massive shape of Air Force One appeared through the snowstorm like a giant fantasy bird and touched down on Battle Mountain’s long runway in a puff of snow. One-eleventh Bomb Wing Security Forces units, including armored personnel carriers, were stationed along the infields and taxiways to escort the plane to its parking spot. The winds were right down the runway but gusting well over twenty knots, blowing snow nearly horizontally and creating large drifts on the runway and taxiway edges. Despite the poor visibility, Air Force One taxied quickly over to a designated spot several hundred meters in front of the base-operations building and shut down engines.

A set of covered airstairs was wheeled over to the entry door, and a few moments later President of the United States Thomas Thorn, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, and Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel emerged. Patrick met them at the bottom of the stairs, saluted, then shook hands with each of them. “Welcome to Battle Mountain, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Miss Deputy Secretary,” he said.

“Lovely weather you’re having here, General,” Robert Goff groused.

“We don’t build military bases on the waterfront in San Francisco anymore, sir,” Patrick said. “This weather suits us just fine.”

Goff looked unimpressed as he turned up the collar of his overcoat and motioned toward a nearby armored Suburban belonging to the Secret Service. “Thanks for parking us so far away from your base-ops building, General,” he complained. “Is that our vehicle? Let’s get the hell out of this snowstorm.”

“Not necessary, sir,” Patrick said. He raised his head slightly, as if making a request of God, and said, “Ready on elevator three, surface to main ramp level.”

“What did you say, Gen—” Goff stopped in midsentence — because he felt the earth move beneath his feet. “What in hell was that? An earthquake…?” And then he noticed that the entire parking spot, VC-25 and all, started to descend into the earth.

The Secret Service agents seemed right on the brink of panic, but the president held up his hands as he saw the look on McLanahan’s face. “Very interesting, General,” he said.

“This is why working here in the middle of the high deserts of northern Nevada in a snowstorm is no big deal for us, sir,” Patrick said. Goff and Hershel gasped in astonishment as a six-inch slab of steel and concrete slid over the opening overhead, blocking out the wind and snow.

“I’ll bet you had one hell of a time convincing Congress to fund this,” Hershel said.

“Thankfully, it was funded back in the Eisenhower administration. I don’t think I would’ve stood a chance.”

“No shit,” Goff muttered.

Thorn, Goff, Hershel, and their entourage were taken aboard electric cars and shown around the vast underground aircraft-parking ramp. They received tours of all the aircraft. They were especially impressed with the two AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft. “Unbelievable,” Thorn said. “There they are — laser weapons aboard combat aircraft. Star Wars for real.”

“They’re not officially operational,” Patrick explained, “but the first one was used successfully over Libya. It and the second one are being modified with the plasma-pumped solid-state lasers. They have fifty percent more power than the original chemical-oxygen-iodine laser design, nearly two megawatts of power — enough to destroy airborne or space targets as small as a Sidewinder missile three hundred miles away or ground targets up to one hundred miles away.”

“What do they cost, General?” Maureen Hershel asked.

“Almost a billion dollars, ma’am,” Patrick replied, “plus ten thousand dollars per flight hour to fly them and about fifty thousand dollars to fire the laser each time.”

“So on a typical patrol mission…”

“Twelve-hour patrol sortie, two hundred engagements… over ten million dollars per sortie, not including the air-refueling tanker support.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s cheap compared to what it would cost to field enough aircraft to do all those attack jobs at once,” Patrick said.

He turned and got the opportunity to study the young woman for the first time. He’d seen her often on TV, of course, and was intrigued from the first moment he heard of her and her background. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes behind rimless reading glasses, mid- to late forties, a bit above average height, trim and shapely, wearing good-looking but casual slacks, jacket, and all-terrain boots — unlike the president and secretary of defense, she looked like she’d come to take a tour of a military base.

“For maximum coverage in a hot combat zone,” Patrick said to her, “we would field three to four aircraft: two in an orbit about a hundred miles from the forward edge of the battle area and one or two aircraft that cycle with the others — one in transit, one on the ground undergoing maintenance and crew rest.”

“You need to think of a way to do it with less,” Thorn said. “Those two birds may be all you ever get. Maybe not even that.”

“We could do it with two aircraft, sir, but we wouldn’t have total coverage,” Patrick said. “An interim solution is to place a few EB-1C Vampire airborne battleships up, armed with Lancelot anti-ballistic-missile weapons and Anaconda long-range air-to-air missiles.”

“So now we’re talking about maybe two squadrons of planes just for the anti-ballistic-missile job,” Goff summarized.

“The EB-52 Megafortresses will be capable of doing the long-range precision standoff bombing missions, and the EB-1C Vampires can also serve as long-range bombers. We can launch fast with a lot of firepower and swing easily from mission to mission.”

“It just doesn’t seem likely we’d ever be able to justify that kind of expense, Patrick.”

“Here’s how, sir: One engagement could destroy a single multiple-warhead ballistic missile, saving as many as twelve cities or military bases from annihilation,” Patrick explained. “A single laser shot could destroy a fifty-million-dollar bomber or a hundred-million-dollar spy satellite. I don’t like focusing on the numbers, sir, because they usually tell only part of the story, but in this case, the numbers show that the Dragon is a superb force-multiplying combat system.”

“Most of Congress can’t get past the purchase price, let alone the cost per sortie,” Secretary of Defense Goff said. “And when they realize they’re paying a billion dollars for a plane that was probably built before most of them were born — let me just say it’s a very tough sell.”

“I’d be happy to help try to make the sale, sir,” Patrick said. “We can dazzle them.”

“Well, dazzle us first before you go volunteering to take on Congress,” Goff said.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said enthusiastically.

There was an odd assortment of other aircraft in the underground parking ramp: C-130 Hercules transports with weird, winglike spy antennae attached to various parts of the fuselage, wings, and stabilizers; huge helicopters with an assortment of radomes and sensor turrets on the nose; and two transport planes that had engines attached to their short, stubby wingtips. “Okay, stop,” Robert Goff said. “I recognize the Commando Solo C-130 psyops plane and the MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopter, but what in the heck are those?”

“We call it the MV-32 Pave Dasher — our modification of the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft,” Patrick explained. “The standard V-22 has turboprops. This one uses fanjet engines that swivel on the wingtips to provide vertical flight as well as high-speed forward flight. The fanjets give it much more lifting power as well as twice the forward speed of the Osprey. The MV-32 Pave Dasher can insert six Battle Force teams — twenty-four heavily armed combat troops — about two thousand miles, or farther with aerial refueling.”

“I don’t recall those planes being authorized or funded,” Goff pointed out. He noticed Patrick’s expression. “I see — another of your freelance, no-cost acquisitions. From Sky Masters Inc., I suppose?”

“One of their development partners, yes, sir.”

“McLanahan’s private little air force again, eh, General?” President Thorn asked.

They continued through a series of wide corridors cut out of the rock and stopped at a set of large steel doors on immense hinges, reminiscent of the huge, vaultlike doors at the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s underground command center at Cheyenne Mountain. The doors looked tired and gray, definitely old — but inside, the large room looked modern and well lit, like a brand-new auditorium or theater.

Brigadier General David Luger, Colonel John Long, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl were lined up in front of the stage inside the auditorium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “Mr. President, Miss Secretary, Mr. Secretary, I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the command here.” Thorn, Hershel, and Goff stepped over to where the others were waiting. “I’d like to introduce you to my second in command, Brigadier General David Luger.”

The VIPs shook hands with Luger. “It’s an honor to meet you, General,” Robert Goff said. He looked at Luger solemnly, glanced at Patrick, then added, “The last two surviving members of the Old Dog crew. Two living legends. I’m glad to have you both around.”

David Luger, tall and lanky and towering over Goff, looked bowed as he realized that it was true: There were only two of the original six crew members of the first “Old Dog” mission left. “It’s good to be here, sir,” he said.

“This is Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, commander of the One-eleventh Attack Wing; Colonel John Long, the operations-group commander; Colonel Daren Mace, commander of the Fifty-first Attack Squadron with the EB-1C Vampires; and Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, commander of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron with the EB-52 Megafortresses and the AL-52 Dragons.”

“The first female combat pilot — another living legend. Nice to meet you, Rebecca,” Goff said, shaking Rebecca’s hand enthusiastically. He shook Long’s hand but did not address him — obviously an astute judge of character, Patrick thought. “Nice to see you again, Daren,” Goff said, shaking Daren’s hand warmly. “I was pleased with the work you did out at Beale.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daren replied.

“I hope you’ll find a home out here—” Goff said. He paused, glanced at McLanahan, then added, “If they haven’t scared you too much already.”

“That may be possible to do, sir, but not yet.”

“Colonel, I’m looking forward to seeing what your airborne-laser aircraft are capable of,” Goff said, shaking Nancy’s hand. Nancy Cheshire was tall, athletic bordering on muscular, with strawberry-blond hair, shining green eyes, and an ever-present smile. She was the senior test pilot in the experimental B-52 bombers at Dreamland, accepting her first operational command to get the chance to keep on flying her beloved super-B-52s and work with Patrick McLanahan.

“Finally,” Patrick went on, “Colonel Hal Briggs and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl, Air Battle Force ground operations.”

Maureen Hershel stared at Chris Wohl in wonderment. Hal was wearing his Air Force Class-A blue uniform, but Chris Wohl was wearing a strange black outfit that resembled high-tech scuba diver’s gear, with a thin backpack, thick boots and belt, and tubes running along the arms and legs. “What in the world is this?” she asked, touching the strange material.

“It’s called BERP — Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, ma’am,” Hal Briggs replied. “Electronic armor. It responds to being sharply struck by instantly hardening into an almost impenetrable protective shield that can withstand attack by up to thirty-seven-millimeter cannon shells. The tubes you see outside the armor are part of the powered exoskeleton, which uses microhydraulic actuators to activate the armor and enhance the wearer’s strength. These electrodes on the shoulders emit directional bursts of electrical energy out as far as fifty feet, which can paralyze an attacker. The boots contain a gas thruster system that can help the wearer jump several hundred feet. The backpack contains a power-generating and rechargeable-battery system, plus worldwide communications and sensor equipment. This is what the well-dressed commando will be wearing this century.”

“They call themselves the Tin Men, Maureen,” Goff said, shaking hands with Briggs and Wohl. His voice was filled with tension and seriousness, but his handshake and eyes were friendly. “They’ve proven themselves extraordinarily effective in many different scenarios, but they’ve also given us a lot of headaches since we’ve taken office. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

“That’s one of our specialties, sir,” Hal Briggs said. “We aim to please.”

“I for one don’t think it’s funny, Colonel,” President Thorn said. “You successfully dragged the United States into a shooting war with Russia and nearly got us into a shooting war with Libya — all for a few lousy dollars. If it weren’t for General McLanahan’s interceding on your behalf, you’d all be in prison right now.” Briggs and Wohl said nothing but remained at parade rest, eyes caged forward. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“I’m happy to have the opportunity to create some havoc for you now, sir,” Briggs said.

“Same here, sir,” Wohl chimed in.

Thorn looked Wohl up and down. “I was a commando, too, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I spent a month crawling on my belly in Iraq before and during Desert Storm with nothing but a laser designator and a bad attitude. But not once in all the battles and all the shit we took did I ever consider turning my back on my country or the Army.”

He stared both Wohl and Briggs in the eyes, his chin jutting out, his jaw clenched. “You left the Corps and fought for an outlaw organization,” he went on angrily. “Both of you renounced your oaths and went to work for what I believe was a criminal organization — a group that stole money, committed murder and mayhem, and absconded with government property. You nearly caused a world war with your antics. You didn’t deserve to come back into the country, let alone come back into the U.S. armed forces and get a promotion.”

“You gave my men and me full exoneration and full restoration of our rank and privileges, sir….” Patrick interjected.

“That’s right — I gave your ranks back to you,” Thorn said heatedly. “I gave them back because you acquitted yourselves with honor in Libya. But you haven’t won the right to think you’re some kind of bad-ass fighting men now.” Thorn turned and saw Wohl glaring at him. He turned and faced the big Marine nose-to-nose. “You have something to say to me, Sergeant Major?”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. His eyes remained caged, not looking directly at the president’s. “But I choose not to say it.”

“Go ahead, Sergeant Major,” Thorn pressed. “You have permission to speak freely. Tell us why you chose to leave your post without being properly relieved, and why you think you deserve to come back into my country’s armed forces — instead of spending the rest of your life in prison.”

Wohl’s eyes angrily snapped over to Thorn’s. That was the reaction Thorn was waiting for.

“Go ahead, Sergeant Major, say it,” Thorn goaded him. “Give me a reason to toss your ass in Leavenworth, where it belongs.”

Wohl wisely, thankfully remained silent.

“You assassinated Pavel Kazakov in Iceland, didn’t you, you murderous son of a bitch?” Thorn asked in a low, ominous voice.

“Excuse me, sir—” Hal Briggs interjected.

“Shut up, Colonel,” Thorn ordered. “I haven’t even started with you yet.” He turned again to Wohl. “You’re a wild dog, Wohl.” He jabbed at Wohl’s chest and was surprised when the material he thought was fabric felt as hard as titanium — he could have all his Secret Service agents nearby, he realized ruefully, and they wouldn’t be able to stop this guy. That made him a little nervous — no, it made him a lot scared—but he knew he couldn’t dare let that show, so he pressed on. “There’s an Interpol warrant for your arrest for Kazakov’s murder, did you know that? He was under United Nations protection. You cut his head off, didn’t you? Whose idea was it to kill Kazakov? Yours or Briggs’s?” Still no response. “Answer me!”

“My men prefer to do their talking on the battlefield, Mr. President,” Patrick McLanahan said forcefully, quickly interjecting his voice between them — he could practically feel the heat from Wohl’s temples as his anger mounted. No one, not even the president of the United States, would be allowed to get into Chris Wohl’s face unscathed for very long. “Sergeant Major Wohl isn’t a debater. He follows orders, leads men into battle, and kills with extraordinary efficiency.”

Thorn looked into Wohl’s eyes and instantly believed what Patrick was telling him.

“If you’d like a briefing on our prior activities and the reasons behind them, sir, I’d be happy to accommodate you at any time.”

“I’m not interested in dog and pony shows, and I’m sure as hell not interested in excuses,” Thorn said. “I’m letting you know that I’m still not convinced that you’re fighting for the United States of America. You have a long way to go before that happens.”

“Sir, we’re ready to demonstrate our capabilities — and our loyalty — anytime, anywhere.”

“That’s why we’re here, General,” Goff said. He waited to see if the president had anything more to say; when Thorn remained silent, Goff said to Patrick, “Okay, Patrick, show us around.”

“Yes, sir. We call this the BATMAN, or Battle Management Center,” Patrick said. They were in a huge room, like an auditorium, complete with tiered seating, a stage, and even three glassed-in balcony sections. Sixteen four-by-three-foot color plasma displays seamlessly hung together on the forward wall above the stage; a few of them were out of order, but the view was still spectacular. “Here in the center are consoles for the commanders and leadership. Behind the commanders are the support staffs, linked together by fiber-optic networks — intelligence, operations, communications, logistics, weather, and manpower. The rear of the tiered section is the virtual-cockpit command center, where teams will be able to control up to six long-range bombers plus a dozen unmanned combat air vehicles or monitor the automated progress of dozens of unmanned aircraft. Up above is the battle staff area; on either side of that are areas for joint forces or civil commanders; and on either side of BATMAN are observer areas, which can be closed off if necessary.”

“When is all this going to be finished, General?” Hershel asked.

“We’re mission-capable now, ma’am,” Patrick replied. “We already have worldwide communications capability here via high-frequency radio, the Internet, secure fiber-optic landline, and secure satellite. All the datalinks aren’t set up yet, but most of the hardware is in place, and it’s just a matter of programming in the links. At this point we’re about at the level where command posts were in the 1980s. In two months we’ll be up to date. In three to six months — with the right funding — we’ll be state-of-the-art, able to control entire squadrons of unmanned aircraft and collect and analyze real-time reconnaissance and intelligence data from all over the world.”

“I’ve seen better, General — I’m not impressed,” Thorn said impatiently. “If I recall correctly, you were tasked only with investigating how your experimental aircraft and weapons could interface with today’s tactical air squadrons. We gave you back all your toys with the idea that they would be merged into other existing combat units on an as-needed basis. It looks to me like you’re building your own military unit here, using General Furness’s planes.”

“That’s inaccurate, sir,” Patrick said. “I don’t control any of these aircraft. The B-1s and KC-135s belong to General Furness; the B-52s belong to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.

“As I understand them, sir, my orders were to discover ways to integrate the EB-52 Megafortress, EB-1C Vampire, AL-52 Dragon, and other weapons, aircraft, satellites, and sensors developed at HAWC with existing forces,” Patrick went on. He knew he was quoting his orders word for word. “I was also given the task of standing up this facility for use as an alternate national military and civil emergency command center and secure evacuation location for the national command authority. I’m ready to brief the National Command Authority at any time on how these weapon systems and this facility can be integrated into the total force structure. I assembled a team of experts on unmanned aircraft development, on my own authority and budget, and I—”

“What you consider ‘your authority’ is highly questionable to me, General,” Thorn interjected. “You must be taking money from other projects and programs to help fund your project — maybe even taking money from General Furness here. Is that what you’re doing, General McLanahan? You are doing flight tests with General Furness’s unmanned B-1 bombers? You want to create an entire wing of robot planes, all controlled from this place?”

Patrick looked over at John Long, who was looking directly at him with a grin on his face. He should’ve expected the rat bastard to drop a dime on him, Patrick thought. “Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “That’s what I’m doing here.”

Rebecca cut in quickly, “Sir, I fully authorized General McLanahan’s use of wing resources for his—”

“I seriously doubt it, General Furness,” Thorn said. “I’ll look into that issue myself.” Thorn and McLanahan stared at each other for a few moments. Then Thorn asked, “So tell me, General — did it work?”

“No, sir,” Patrick replied, “it did not.”

David, Rebecca, Daren, and even John Long looked at McLanahan in surprise. “It didn’t work?” Thorn retorted. “Not at all? Any of it?”

“The tests proved what we already knew about the StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicle system — it’s a mostly reliable and effective weapon system,” Patrick elaborated. “Unfortunately, the tests we performed regarding unmanned full-size bomber aircraft being used both as a mothership and as an attack platform were unsuccessful. Although we were able to launch and retrieve a StealthHawk UCAV remotely, we were unable to complete an aerial refueling, which was our main objective.”

Thorn looked at the surprised expressions of the officers before him — something wasn’t quite jibing. He gave them a few heartbeats to speak, perhaps come to McLanahan’s defense… but they did not.

“Too bad, General,” he said finally. He wasn’t about to prompt anyone for more information. If they didn’t want to be forthcoming for some reason — meaning, if they didn’t believe in the project enough to back the boss — he certainly wasn’t going to do it for them. “I hope all you’ve wasted is a little jet fuel.”

“I would like to see the full results of your flight tests,” Goff interjected.

“Secretary Goff gave you an assignment recently, General,” the president asked. “Got something for us?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied. “My deputy, General Luger, has the information you requested.”

“Then let’s get started.” They all took seats, and Patrick motioned to David Luger.

“Good morning, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Miss Deputy Secretary,” Luger began. “Last week, on orders transmitted to the First Air Battle Force from the Joint Chiefs of Staff deputy commander for operations, I was directed by General McLanahan to perform an operational air-battle assessment of the eastern Turkmenistan region, concentrating specifically on recent military maneuvers by a group of insurgents identified by the CIA as the same Taliban fighters we interdicted in Operation Hilltop a couple weeks ago,” Luger said. “An air-battle assessment is a tasking whereby we identify and classify threats in a specific area using our own surveillance assets, combined with national and international sources, and then develop a plan of action to counter the threats. I looked at all threats posed by these insurgents but primarily focused on the threat to U.S. interests — national and civil as well as military — in Central Asia.

“In general, sir, we identify no credible threat to U.S. military interests in Central Asia and only minor military threats to U.S. interests in neighboring areas such as the Persian Gulf, Indian Ocean, or Black Sea regions. However, we have identified an imminent and serious threat to U.S. commercial interests in Turkmenistan that could have grave repercussions in the entire region and neighboring regions.”

“You mean those insurgents and the threat to TransCal’s pipelines,” Maureen Hershel interjected.

“Yes, ma’am,” Luger acknowledged. “In short, the TransCal pipelines — all of them — are effectively right now in the hands of the insurgents, and at this point they fully control them. They can shut them down, blow them up, hold them hostage, keep them running — whatever they want to do. The Turkmen army is virtually incapable of resisting them any longer.”

“It’s worse than we thought, then,” Goff said.

“The insurgents control fifty percent of all the pipelines in the entire country — nearly ninety-five percent of the lines not owned by Russian oil companies,” Luger said. “Duty Officer, slide number one.” Several of the screens in front of them came to life, showing a map of Turkmenistan, the border region with Uzbekistan highlighted. “Here is a map of all of TransCal’s pipelines — five billion dollars’ worth, a joint venture by TransCal and the Turkmen government, transporting crude oil and natural gas from Turkmenistan’s substantial known oil and gas fields to a few refineries, but mostly to users in twelve neighboring countries and to shipment points in Pakistan. Turkmenistan itself uses only about three percent of what it produces. Overall, the pipelines are modern, aboveground, well hardened against earthquake and storms, and mostly remotely monitored, with quarterly visual inspections.

“The biggest pipelines — both oil and gas lines — run right along the entire Turkmen-Uzbek border. As you can see, most of these lines are controlled by the insurgents, from the Tajikistan border to Chärjew. TransCal also has a pipeline system running from their wells in Uzbekistan south to the city of Mary, then south through Afghanistan to Pakistani ports on the Gulf of Oman; all the lines from Chärjew to Mary are under insurgent control, which means they control the lines south of there as well.

“The insurgents also control the TransCal pipelines running along the Kara Kum Canal, which runs east-west from the Iranian to the Uzbek borders. That canal is important in irrigation, flood control, and transportation in most of southern Turkmenistan. The insurgents can now cut off all petroleum deliveries running to the east and south, including oil and natural gas to Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent — we estimate nearly two hundred thousand barrels of crude oil and fifty million cubic feet of natural gas per day.

“TransCal has responded to the insurgents by paying them what amounts to ‘protection’ money,” Luger went on. “We have located sizable numbers of Taliban forces, including Turkmen soldiers hired by the Taliban or by Turkmen defectors, at every pumping and control station east of the sixty-second-degree east longitude — over a hundred switches, pumping stations, check-valve stations, power stations, and control stations spread out across forty thousand square miles. We estimate that the numbers of Taliban troops are at least fifteen to eighteen thousand — over a third the size of the regular Turkmen army.”

“So you’re saying it’ll be real tough to kill these Taliban, is that what you’re telling me, General?” Thorn asked irritably.

“The problem isn’t with killing them — the problem is what they’ll do once they find out they’re under attack,” Dave Luger said. “Their forces are spread out over three hundred miles of pipeline. If Battalion A comes under attack, Battalion C a hundred miles away might have orders to blow up a pumping station or the pipeline itself.”

“I don’t need you to present me with problems, son. I need you to give me answers,” Thorn said.

“The answer, sir: concentrate our forces on the most vital points in each section of the pipelines,” Luger went on. “We’ve identified six of the most vital upstream points. We can verify our analysis with TransCal, but this is our best guess. Duty Officer, next slide.” Six red triangles appeared on the map of Turkmenistan. “The most critical one is in Chärjew. It controls pipelines running east-west along the Amu Darya River and north-south from Uzbekistan. If we can take control of these six points, but especially the main control center in Chärjew, the insurgents can blow up almost every foot of the rest of the pipelines, and there won’t be a major spill. The second most important control center is in Bayramaly, east of the city of Mary. This one controls oil flowing north-south to Pakistan through Afghanistan and also east-west.”

“Let me guess — you have six teams standing by ready to go,” Thorn said.

“Yes, sir,” Luger said. He motioned to Hal Briggs. “Colonel?”

“Thank you, sir,” Hal Briggs began, stepping forward. “Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Miss Deputy Secretary, I’m Colonel Hal Briggs, commander of the Air Battle Force ground forces. The Air Battle Force concept puts together massive airpower with small, well-equipped, and highly mobile ground forces for its operations. We believe, and we can demonstrate, that this concept will be the primary way in which many conflicts are fought in the foreseeable future. The Air Battle Force concept emphasizes speed, precision striking power, and adaptability to a wide range of conflicts, from small-scale protective and defensive missions such as an embassy emergency, to antiterrorist operations, to military operations in urban terrain, to an all-out air, ground, naval, and space battle.

“In Turkmenistan we intend to field ten strike teams,” Briggs said. “Six teams will take the petro-control stations that General Luger mentioned; two teams will be in charge of securing the airfield at Chärjew, which will become our base of operations; two teams will man the supply aircraft and roam across the battle area, augmenting other teams as necessary.”

“Ten teams? Do you mean ten battalions? Ten brigades?” Defense Secretary Goff asked in surprise. “What do you intend to do? Insert the entire One Hundred and First Airborne Division into Turkmenistan?”

“No, sir. I intend to insert ten Battle Force teams — one hundred men and women,” Hal Briggs replied.

“One hundred? Are you kidding me?” Thorn asked incredulously. “You intend to capture those positions with just one—” And then he saw Chris Wohl, in the Tin Man battle armor with the microhydraulic exoskeleton, step over to Hal Briggs, and he understood. Wohl had put on his helmet during the briefing, so the visitors were getting the absolute full effect of the Tin Man battle armor system. “You’ve got one hundred soldiers with that getup?”

“Not quite, sir,” Briggs explained. “Each Battle Force team consists of five men with complete Tin Man battle-armor systems, plus three men with advanced combat-armor systems, or ACAS, and two conventionally equipped commandos. ACAS provides improved ballistic protection and the same communications and sensor capability — several steps up from standard-issue infantry units, but not as capable as the Tin Man system. Eventually all team members will have Tin Man systems, but we aren’t ramped up to that level yet.

“The principal technologies behind the Air Battle Force teams is high-speed mobility, high-tech precision weapons, and advanced sensor capabilities,” Briggs said. “The Tin Man systems are designed for mobility and hitting power, and we’re relying on them to hold the positions with support from ACAS troops.”

“It still seems pretty unlikely you can cover that entire pipe with one hundred guys, Colonel,” Hershel observed.

“Ma’am, combined with the air-operations force, we can,” Briggs said. “The Battle Force ground teams’ assignment will be to break the grip of the Taliban on the six most vital control stations of the pipeline system, plus Chärjew Airport. The air-operations teams will be above us to take out any Taliban troop concentrations, but we need to be careful not to bomb too closely to the pipelines for fear of causing the very catastrophe we’re trying to prevent.”

“The air-operations force will initially consist of StealthHawk unmanned stealth combat air vehicles flying round-the-clock patrols over eastern Turkmenistan,” David Luger said. “The StealthHawks are launched by EB-52 bombers, EB-1C bombers, and other support aircraft. The unmanned aircraft serve as both reconnaissance and defensive attack platforms to protect the ground forces. If necessary, the patrols will be augmented by manned EB-52 Megafortress and EB-1C Vampire bomber attacks on Turkmen air-defense locations, protected by AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft. Once we have control of the skies over eastern Turkmenistan, we can withdraw the manned aircraft.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” President Thorn said sourly. “But I know for damned sure that if it sounds too easy, there’s always a catch.” He turned to Patrick McLanahan and asked pointedly, “What’s the catch here, General?”

“The catch, sir, is that the Air Battle Force’s mission is to go in fast and hit hard — we’re not set up to protect or hold territory,” Patrick responded. “We can defend those positions only for so long. Eventually you need to send in Marines or regular-army units to take over until Turkmen forces get reorganized.”

“If there’s even a Turkmen government to command them,” Acting Secretary of State Hershel added.

“Frankly, Miss Hershel, if the Turkmen government doesn’t want to play, we shouldn’t be in there risking American lives to defend them — or TransCal’s oil,” Thorn said. “TransCal can continue to pay protection money, or they can bug out, too. We go in with friendly forces solidly behind us or we don’t go in at all.”

“Roger that, sir,” Patrick McLanahan agreed enthusiastically. “The Gurizev regime is staunchly pro-Russian.”

“Yes, but who speaks for the Turkmen people?” Maureen Hershel asked. “You’ve mentioned a lot about TransCal and the Russians, but what about the people?”

“The people seem to be siding with the Taliban insurgents more and more,” David Luger responded. “In general, the Taliban insurgents have treated the people of Turkmenistan and army conscripts with kindness and generosity, and at the same time they’ve shown how brutal they could be with the professional Turkmen soldiers and the Russians.”

“Sounds like two different people calling the shots to me,” Maureen Hershel said. “Maybe the Taliban leader is the brutal one and the military guy knows better than to alienate the people while occupying their land.”

“I think you’re right, Miss Hershel,” Patrick said. “Sergeant Major Wohl interrogated one of the Taliban commanders on our last mission inside Turkmenistan, and his observations are in line with that.”

“Oh? Mind filling us in, Sergeant Major?” Goff asked.

Chris Wohl removed his Tin Man helmet before he responded. “I spoke with a man who called himself Jalaluddin Turabi, sir. He said his commander’s name is Wakil Mohammad Zarazi. We ran their names through intelligence files. Both men have been trained by foreign countries for military and terrorist operations, but Wakil Zarazi was identified and specially trained as a religious zealot. We don’t know much more about them, except for this: When I interrogated Turabi, he described himself as a jihadi — a holy warrior. He mentioned Zarazi’s rank — a general — but said he himself did not have any rank, although he was clearly the leader of the detachment we encountered. He seemed to indicate that Zarazi was on some kind of quest, some sort of mission — not a jihad, or at least not the same holy war that Turabi thought he was on.”

“We consider this a fairly significant ideological break,” Patrick said. “Taliban soldiers on a jihad are usually tasked with disrupting enemy lines of communication and obtaining money and supplies for their clans. This appears to be what Turabi’s mission is. But Zarazi is obviously doing far more. If politicians like Gurizev and fighters like Turabi can be convinced to side with the West in exchange for a greater share in the oil profits and a greater voice in their government, maybe they can be convinced to accept U.S. military and financial assistance in setting up a representative government.”

Now I understand why this guy is being considered as President Thomas Thorn’s national security adviser, Maureen Hershel thought. That is exactly the kind of half-military, half-political strategic advice Thorn needs — but he rarely gets it because he’s beleaguered with the minutiae of the kind of administration he designed. Thomas Thorn didn’t believe in getting the United States involved with other countries’ problems, so he had no one in his inner circle thinking or studying those problems and how it might benefit the United States to help.

“General McLanahan, you haven’t told me anything that leads me to think we need to change our position on Central Asia,” Thorn said. “I don’t see that a military option is called for.”

“We would suggest other options: either support Gurizev’s government, the one that signed the deals with TransCal Petroleum, or replace it,” Patrick McLanahan suggested.

“Replace it with what?” Hershel asked. “Gurizev is little more than a dictator.”

“Why not start with Jalaluddin Turabi?” Patrick replied.

“Turabi — you mean support a Taliban insurgent as the new president of Turkmenistan?” Robert Goff exclaimed. “We’ve spent several years and billions of dollars trying to eliminate the Taliban. Surely you can’t expect us to support a Taliban terrorist to be president?”

“Based on the sergeant major’s observations, I believe that Turabi is a senior officer in this Taliban army — maybe even the deputy commander,” Patrick said. “It’s possible he could be the real military brains behind this operation as well. If so, he embarked on this mission simply because he’s obligated to follow his leader, Zarazi, in supporting their clan. Zarazi pushes them forward, but it’s Turabi who actually accomplishes the missions. Zarazi kills with vengeance; Turabi is praised for his kindness, compassion, and generosity. Zarazi is a zealot, a wild ideological dog — he probably can’t be bargained with. Turabi is the clearheaded one. If he’s approachable and interested, we should try to make a deal with him.”

Robert Goff shook his head and muttered something that sounded like “That’s crazy,” but Hershel nodded thoughtfully at McLanahan. “I think it’s an interesting idea,” she said. “I think it’s worth a trip out to Turkmenistan to try to make contact with him.”

“If I know President Martindale, he’ll be on his way out there to do the same thing,” Patrick observed. “He’ll try to get Gurizev to crack down harder on the insurgents, but he’ll also try to contact the insurgent leaders — first to bribe them into not blowing up the pipelines and then to feel them out as a possible replacement regime to Gurizev.”

“Interesting idea,” Thorn said acidly. “Did your buddy Kevin Martindale tell you that himself?” Patrick McLanahan’s face turned grim. The activities of the former president of the United States were a very unpleasant topic between them all.

Three years earlier, following the successful development of the Tin Man battle-armor system by Sky Masters Inc., then-president Kevin Martindale sought to build the first Air Battle Force: small teams of high-tech commandos that could devastate the enemy with high-speed maneuverability and advanced weaponry, supported by stealth aircraft. It would be unnecessary to spend months mobilizing thousands of troops for overseas deployment when a force of a few dozen Tin Men could do the job just as well.

Kevin Martindale did not get reelected to the White House — but the Air Battle Force concept didn’t die. Instead, as an ex-president, Martindale assembled the team code-named “the Night Stalkers”—former special-operations operators, led by Patrick’s brother, Paul McLanahan, in the Tin Man battle-armor system. They acted as high-tech mercenary soldiers, pursuing the world’s worst criminals and terrorists.

Their audacity and disregard for the rules of law made them many enemies, including President Thomas Thorn and his advisers, but the organization was highly successful. Eventually Patrick’s and his friends’ public support for the organization embarrassed the White House to the extent that they were all involuntarily retired from active duty. Patrick, David, Hal, and Chris soon joined the Night Stalkers, and Sky Masters Inc., the private defense contractor run by Jon Masters, supported them as well. The group soon became the “firemen” in the world-crisis scene — they carried out the nasty, unpleasant search-and-destroy missions that most other nations, including Thomas Thorn and the United States, refused or were unable to tackle. This proved to be doubly embarrassing for men like Lester Busick, Edward Kercheval, and Robert Goff, who were members of Thorn’s administration but who openly advocated more U.S. involvement in world hot spots.

But it was soon obvious that the Night Stalkers weren’t going to survive. In order to finance their global operation, the Night Stalkers often had to steal from their victims. Patrick McLanahan himself tortured, then threatened to kill one international terrorist, Pavel Kazakov, unless he was paid half a billion dollars. As pleased as the world community was to see killers like Kazakov in prison, the extortion tactics left a dark stain on the Night Stalkers’ reputation.

The group later turned to mercenary work, being paid by wealthy corporations to spy on foreign governments and raid foreign military installations that threatened the company’s interests. That turned out to be the last straw. Now every government was afraid of being hit by the Night Stalkers. The group wasn’t fighting for justice or retribution anymore — they were fighting for money. The U.S. government cracked down on them, arresting several associates and closing down Sky Masters Inc. for a short time. Martindale disbanded the team shortly thereafter. McLanahan, Luger, Briggs, and Wohl were allowed to return to active military duty.

“He did not, sir — but I’m sure he would have,” Patrick said now in answer to the president’s question.

“How the hell can you give that bastard any credit at all, General?” Thorn asked. “You lost your wife and your brother in Libya, thanks to that son of a bitch Martindale.” Maureen Hershel stared at Thorn, then McLanahan, in total shock. Obviously she hadn’t heard the stories yet.

“Sir, I give President Martindale credit for the courage to act,” Patrick said. “We did what we thought was right. We had the power to do something, and we did it. We didn’t wait around for some government to do it for us.”

“Fine. You made the deserts of Libya and Egypt safe for multinational oil companies to make tremendous profits off blood oil,” Thorn said. “Was it worth the lives of your family, General?”

“You said you’re here for your own edification, Mr. President,” Patrick said. “If you won’t get involved in Turkmenistan, why bother coming here and getting this briefing? Is it disrespectful, wrong, or even treasonous to plan and prepare for action even if your boss, the so-called leader of the free world, doesn’t want to get involved?”

“You’re talking about your commander in chief, General,” Robert Goff said pointedly. He couldn’t get too angry with McLanahan — he mostly agreed with him, after all — but he couldn’t let him get away with talking so freely either. “Let’s get off this subject, shall we?”

Thorn gave Patrick a stern glare but let the matter drop.

“CIA just briefed the White House that they think Russia might be a player again in Turkmenistan,” Goff informed them. “Kurban Gurizev is staunchly pro-Russian, anti-West, and anti-Muslim. CIA feels that if the insurgents threaten the oil coming out of Turkmenistan, the Russian army could intervene — in fact, their intervention would be welcomed by Gurizev as a way to cement his hold on the government.”

“And if the Taliban insurgents continue to beat down the Turkmen army — what little remains of it — it would almost certainly draw Russia into the conflict,” Patrick said. He thought for a moment. “Russia has a couple fighter wings, weapon ranges, and a large air-combat-training facility at Mary in Turkmenistan. It’s equivalent to the Navy’s Strike and Air Warfare Center at Naval Air Station Fallon or the Air Force’s Air Warfare Center at Nellis Air Force Base. Elements of Russia’s Caspian Sea Flotilla are still based in Turkmenistan, including a marine infantry brigade and special-operations battalion, and Russian officers still serve in many Turkmen military units as contract workers.”

“But we’re told the Russian military has completely departed Turkmenistan, and there is virtually no integration between the Turkmen and Russian armies,” Goff said. “What’s the threat, Patrick?”

“It’s a perceived threat, sir, not a real one,” Patrick replied. “Turkmenistan was an important Soviet republic, and it still is a major source of cheap oil that Russia relies on for its own use and for export. If Turkmenistan were lost to a bunch of Muslim extremist insurgents, with Russian officers in charge of the military and with Russian military forces still on the ground there, it would be a major embarrassment for Russia.”

Both Thorn and Goff fell silent, deep in thought.

“Interesting analysis, gentlemen,” President Thorn said at last. “Your observations seem to dovetail very well with CIA’s.” He turned to Hershel and added, “A diplomatic mission to Turkmenistan might be in order right away.” He nodded to Luger, Briggs, and Wohl. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’d like to speak with General McLanahan for a few moments.” He shook hands with each one of them, even Chris Wohl’s armored hand, as they departed.

Thorn, Hershel, and Goff conferred with one another apart from the military personnel; Patrick walked the others to the door so he could stay respectfully out of earshot. “What do you think’s going on, Muck?” Dave Luger asked.

“I think we watered their eyes,” Patrick replied, “and we’re going to be very busy in the next several weeks. I want a staff meeting set up for thirteen hundred hours. Let’s talk about what we have and what we don’t have.”

“You got it.”

“General McLanahan,” Secretary Goff called out. Patrick, Rebecca, and then John Long joined Thorn, Hershel, and Goff. “We thank you very much for the tour, General,” he said. “We’re on our way.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it that your aircraft is brought up to the surface and made ready right away.”

“General Furness,” President Thorn asked, “what is your opinion of General McLanahan’s program here?”

“My opinion, sir?”

“What do you think, General?” Thorn asked pointedly. “Do you think he has something there, or do you think he was too far out in left field to come up with anything practical?”

Rebecca looked uncomfortable for a moment, then replied, “Sir, General McLanahan has always been an unconventional thinker. Ever since he first set foot on my base in Reno, he baffles, irritates, and frustrates me with the ideas he comes up with and the gadgets he devises to get the job done. I call it unconventional; some might call it innovative. I don’t know how he does it, but he gets the job done.”

“Damning with faint praise?” Goff remarked. “I’m not following you, General. Is this whole idea something that needs to be explored further, or do you just want to get your base and wing and planes back and put together your unit the way you see fit?”

“Sir, I don’t quite know what to make of this unmanned-attack-plane idea,” she replied. “I’ve been training and leading aircrews into battle for twelve years. In my estimation a human being behind the controls will always be better than a machine. Had we not been at the controls of that EB-1, I feel fairly certain — not positive, but fairly certain — that we could have lost a two-hundred-million-dollar plane.”

She paused for a moment, then added, “And yes, I’ll admit, I was very aware of the fact that it was my plane, one of only a few that belonged to my wing. This is my first wing-level command, something I’ve always wanted, and, frankly, I don’t relish sharing the spotlight with Patrick McLanahan. General McLanahan has an annoying habit of smelling like he came out of a French whorehouse even after emerging out of absolute train wrecks. Pardon me, sir, but what I meant to say is—”

“We know what you mean, General. We’ve been there,” Thorn said with a faint smile.

“At one point in our nation’s history, sir, they said a woman didn’t have what was needed to take a warplane into combat,” Rebecca went on. “They said women were too nurturing, not strong enough, not aggressive enough, too overcome by emotions and feelings and too ingrained as the ones who give birth and build nests to make effective destroyers. I’m happy to say we proved them wrong.”

“So what are you saying, General?”

“I’m saying that General McLanahan’s project needs more study and more experimentation,” she replied. “One test flight is not enough to prove his theories either way. And… and it only makes sense to use my wing’s aircraft, facilities, and budget to continue the experiments. General McLanahan and General Luger have been working with my wing’s aircraft for years. We’re still in the process of developing an EB-1C Vampire training program for instructors. We’re at least six months from finalizing a curriculum and training students. Our aircraft and facilities are underutilized.”

“So what are you recommending?” Goff asked.

“I’m recommending that my unit’s budget be recast and our mission redefined to make General McLanahan’s Air Battle Force concept operational as soon as possible,” Rebecca said. “If it works, we may never need to send an American into harm’s way again. The fliers I know consider it their duty to fly into harm’s way, and as long as they know and understand the mission and the objective, they’ll do it time after time. But that’s my old-school opinion. If the future of air combat means remotely piloted planes and satellite-guided, unmanned, bomb-carrying drones, then I’d be proud to have my wing lead the way.”

Robert Goff nodded in agreement — but Thomas Thorn looked at first confused, then angry.

“Listen, I’m sure I’m not getting the whole story here,” he said, “but I’ve seen what I came here to see. I’m still going to do an investigation on whether or not you misappropriated any funds, General McLanahan, or whether your use of private experimental aircraft puts the government at risk.” He looked at all three of them, then added, “I do like the analysis you did regarding Central Asia, and I think you might have some weapon systems here that can be of use if this incident starts to get serious. Secretary Goff, you handle this affair as you see fit.”

“Very good, sir.”

Thorn nodded, then looked the three military officers in the eye. “Maybe you kids aren’t as dishonest, backstabbing, treacherous, and confused as I was led to believe.” And then he paused, looked right at John Long, and stared at him long enough for everyone to fully understand exactly who it was that had led him to believe those things. Long squirmed, but there was nowhere to hide.

“I don’t know what to make of all this, but I can tell you one thing: I don’t like sidewinders. I like my fights out in the open. That’ll be all, Colonel.” Long saluted; Thorn did not return the salute. “Right now I pretty much feel like a damned gopher. Someone show me the fastest way to some sunshine.” David Luger and the head of the Presidential Protection Detail motioned toward the waiting electric cars. “Robert, Maureen, a word with you, please.”

Rebecca Furness went over to Patrick when Goff, Hershel, and the president stepped away to confer among themselves. “You know, I can’t figure you out sometimes, McLanahan,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you tell them what you think, Patrick?” she asked. “I know you don’t think the plane was in danger. I know for damned sure you don’t think there was a boom strike. In fact, none of the maintenance guys, at Diego Garcia or here, found any evidence of a boom strike.”

“It doesn’t matter what I’d tell them.”

“Doesn’t matter? You know as well as I do that if you told them, they might give you another chance to test your virtual-cockpit stuff….”

“Rebecca, they would expect me to say exactly that. They would expect me to support my program no matter what happened or what my staff report read,” Patrick said. “But I can’t ignore my senior officers. I may not agree with your observations, Rebecca, but I’m not going to tell the National Command Authority that you’re wrong and I’m right, just because I’m wearing two stars. I have more respect for you and your years of experience than that. If you say the test was not successful and the only argument I have is ‘I disagree,’ I’m not going to push a bad position. We live to fight another day.”

The president stepped on board the electric car after a few moments, while Robert Goff and Maureen Hershel went back over to Patrick. “The president is leaving it up to me,” Goff said. “I want this unit made mission-ready as soon as possible. How soon can you have your mission statement, timetable, and budget built, General?”

“We can have it sent to the chairman’s office in two days,” Patrick said.

“Make it one day, Patrick, and I’ll sit down with General Venti and get it moving,” Goff said. “And I want to see your detailed plan for Turkmenistan, should the president decide to intervene. I’m not promising you any more money or very much support, but any plan that doesn’t involve sending in a lot of troops or equipment while still getting the job done will definitely merit the president’s attention.”

“I’ll transmit General Luger’s report to your office immediately, sir.”

“Your damned report frankly scared the shit out of us, General,” Goff added. “The CIA pussyfooted on their report, of course. They either won’t commit to any conclusions or put every possible conclusion, no matter how unlikely, in their summaries. You folks came up with clear observations, logical conclusions, a direct plan of action, realistic problem scenarios, and even some political directions to pursue as we head down the military track. I like that.

“And I believe that the president admired your candor and honesty with each other,” Goff went on. “You two definitely have a history together, and most of it has not been pleasant. You’re both chasing different and most times opposing objectives, but you eventually realize the need to work together so you can achieve them. You haven’t killed each other, so that must mean you have some respect for one another. It’s like mixing hydrogen and oxygen: If you do it wrong, it blows up in your face, and if you do it right, you get life-sustaining water. Just when we think putting you two together is going to blow up in everyone’s faces, you come together and make something happen.” He shook his head and said, “Shit, this mole hole of yours is starting to affect my brain, McLanahan. I’m starting to sound like Mark Twain’s stupid brother. Let’s get the hell out of this bat cave, Maureen, and let these kids get back to work.”

The last to depart was Maureen Hershel. She shook hands with Patrick McLanahan. “I don’t understand everything about your aircraft and the weapons you have here, General,” she said, “but I’m fascinated with the electronic-armor technology. The power at your disposal with such a system appears immense. One man equals a dozen soldiers — and then some.”

“That’s the idea. Use technology as force multipliers,” Patrick said. “There’s no need to bring a huge security force when one properly equipped man can do the job.”

“Very interesting,” she said. “I might be calling on you for help someday.”

“We’re ready to help any way we can.”

“And”—she looked into his eyes as if uncertain, then went on—“and I don’t want to pry….”

“It’s all right,” Patrick said. “Ask me anything, Miss Deputy Secretary.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m Maureen to you,” she said.

“Thank you… Maureen.” And for the first time since she met him, McLanahan smiled. It was still a tired, war-weary smile, but it seemed to change the mood of the underground facility as dramatically and as surely as if a giant hand had ripped the place open and let sunshine come streaming in.

“I don’t know what happened with you and your family and President Martindale,” Hershel went on. “I’ve heard the rumors about some of the former president’s activities since leaving office, but I assumed they were just rumors. I would like to extend my sympathy to you, even if I don’t quite know all the circumstances. If you could someday explain it to me, I’d like to hear what happened. Your version of it.”

“It’s not something I’d care to relate, ma’am—”

“Maureen. Please.”

“Maureen, it’s not a story I’d care to tell. But if it would help explain what we do and how we intend to use the Air Battle Force in future conflicts… then, yes, I could tell you what happened.”

“Thank you, General,” she said, touching his arm. “Believe me, it’s not idle curiosity. If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”

“Thank you, Maureen,” Patrick said. “I’ll make myself available to tell you everything — soon.”

“Thank you again.” She paused, then added, “And I suppose I can expect the confirmation hearings to start soon on your nomination as President Thorn’s first national security adviser?”

“I haven’t been asked, and I doubt if I ever will,” Patrick said.

“Your name is still being bandied about on Capitol Hill. I think you’d find a surprising number in Congress ready to support you. President Thorn will never be seen as anyone with a strong military-affairs mind-set, despite his military background. On the other hand, you have a very impressive — and enticingly mysterious — one. Don’t count yourself out too soon.”

“I’m not counting myself in or out at all, Miss Hershel. I’ve got too big a job here.”

“Yes, you do,” she agreed. “I’ll be watching for you in Washington, though. Good luck, General.”

So it’s true, Kevin Martindale remarked silently to himself as he entered the luxurious hotel suite. There’s been a shake-up. Kercheval’s gone.

Maureen Hershel got to her feet, put on her best smile, and extended her hand long before she reached her visitor. “President Martindale, welcome,” she said. “I’m Maureen Hershel. I apologize that Secretary Kercheval couldn’t be here, but he asked his staff to brief you and for me to answer any questions you had personally.”

“Thank you.”

Kevin Martindale had a chance to look the woman over as she crossed the opulent Sherwood Suite to greet him. Wearing a conservative but expensively cut suit tailored just above the knee, a silky beige low-cut blouse underneath, and Italian shoes, she looked like a junior partner in a wealthy law firm instead of a State Department official. Her handshake was firm but brief.

“I’m sure I’m in good hands, Miss Hershel. How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you,” she said in a friendly and only slightly officious tone. “Please have a seat. I’m told you wanted to forgo the usual meet-and-greet photos.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Martindale said, in a tone that obviously indicated he didn’t much care if she minded or not.

“Not at all.” She paused for a heartbeat, then asked, “But would you mind telling me why, Mr. President?”

The question took him aback for a moment, but he looked her straight in the eye and replied, “Frankly, I don’t expect you to give me any of the answers I’m looking for. And since this is otherwise not a social visit, I thought it best to skip the usual smiling faces and glad-handing pretexts.”

“I see.” Now it was her turn to look Kevin Martindale over. The young former president of the United States had been a force on the American political scene for many years. He was portrayed as everything President Thomas Thorn was not: brash, headstrong, opinionated, hard-charging, and forceful. It was almost as if the American people, anxious and maybe even fearful of the future emerging because of Thorn’s laissez-faire attitude toward foreign affairs, were wistfully thinking back to the respect and power as portrayed by the government during the Martindale administration.

But only recently had he become a celebrity personality as well. It helped that Kevin Martindale was young, handsome, wealthy, single, and had at one time been one of the most powerful men on earth. His well-publicized divorce while vice president, and his steady stream of starlet girlfriends during his single term as chief executive, only served to keep him in the public eye. But now that he was back in the political hunt, his name and face appeared in all sorts of media outlets these days, not just the supermarket tabloids.

Maureen gave Martindale his choice of seats in the sitting area of the suite — even the armchair opposite hers, as her equal — but instead he chose the far side of the long sofa. She dismissed the official State Department photographer with a polite nod, then, playing the hostess, gestured at a nearby serving cart. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee for me,” she said, then sat down in the plush armchair at the head of the sitting area in front of the fireplace. She crossed her legs, held the cup in both hands, and took a sip as her guest made himself comfortable.

Martindale reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a Davidoff Double R Churchill. “Do you mind, Miss Deputy Secretary? I know there’s no smoking in the Fairmont these days, but I also know that Mr. Kercheval enjoys a good cigar, so I brought mine and a few for him.”

“Not at all,” she said, quickly and neutrally.

He clipped his cigar, then, as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and withdrew another. “Do you indulge, Miss Deputy Secretary?”

“No,” she said coolly.

He chuckled with a distinct air of superiority. “Thought I’d better ask. Equality for women should extend to things like fine cigars, should it not?”

“It has nothing to do with equality — just taste,” she responded.

He shrugged, uncertain of what she meant by that, and put the second cigar back in his pocket. He withdrew a silver lighter and was about to touch the flame to his cigar when he stopped in surprise — as Hershel pulled her own cigar from her inside breast pocket.

“But it’s not because I don’t like cigars. I just don’t like those cigars. I prefer Lars Tetens to Davidoffs.” She pulled her own clippers and lighter from her pocket. “The Tesshu Deluxe Robusto is my favorite. Made in New York. I was introduced to them by a German vice air marshal. You’d have thought he’d discovered the New World by how much he raved about them. They take some getting used to, but they are worth the effort.” The pungent aroma of the Lars Teten quickly, easily overpowered the Davidoff. Martindale couldn’t help but look on in amazement as the woman puffed away happily on the rich, strong cigar.

“I hope you’re having a pleasant trip out here to the West Coast, Miss Hershel.”

“Fine, thank you, Mr. President.”

“Kevin. Please. Thorn is ‘Mr. President’ now.”

“Thank you, Kevin. And I’m Maureen.”

Martindale nodded. “I thank you for meeting with me.”

“Not at all.” She eased back in her chair, then surprised him again by casually throwing the elbow of her left arm onto the chair back and propping her head on her left thumb, with the cigar between the forefinger and middle finger of the same hand.

“I wanted to discuss a very important matter confronting the United States, Maureen.”

“The situation in Turkmenistan.”

“Exactly,” he said. “You know, of course, about the invasion by those Taliban fighters.”

“Yes.” She turned away from him to take another deep draw from the cigar, and she did not look back at him as she released the smoke from her lips. “The fighters seem to be growing in strength and taking new territory almost at will. I’d say the situation is extremely fluid.”

“ ‘Fluid’? Miss Hershel, the situation is critical out there!” Martindale retorted. “The Taliban insurgents now control three-quarters of the American-built oil and gas pipelines in Turkmenistan!”

“They control three-quarters of the pipelines in the eastern half of the country, approximately eight thousand linear miles, plus eight distribution facilities, sixteen pumping facilities, and two power-production facilities,” Hershel said, still looking away from Martindale, reeling off the information as if she were reading it in the clouds of cigar smoke swirling around her head. “They control all of product distribution to Uzbekistan and Pakistan and about half of the distribution to Iran, Afghanistan, and Kazakhstan.”

“It’s a serious development, Maureen.” Martindale slapped his Davidoff into an ashtray on the table next to him with an angry jab; he couldn’t taste it anyway over the overpowering scent of the Lars Teten. “Many folks around the world consider this conflict to be President Thorn’s first major foreign emergency test, one that directly affects American business interests. I’m impressed that you have such a command of the data, Maureen, but what I’d like to know is, what exactly does the president intend to do about it?”

Hershel finally turned toward her guest, undocking her head from her thumb but staying back in her chair. “The president has made his views clear, Mr. Martindale,” she said. “The Turkmen government hasn’t asked the United States for help.” Martindale was about to speak, but Hershel quickly said, “We know about the Taliban and their moves on the oil and hydroelectric facilities. Even so, the president does not feel that this insurgency is a threat to any vital national interests—”

“Not a threat!” Martindale retorted. “If this doesn’t qualify as a threat, I’m not sure what would.”

“The insurgents haven’t taken anything,” Hershel said calmly. “TransCal is paying the leader of that Taliban group to leave the pipelines alone and functioning — protection money — and that’s exactly what they’re doing. Product is flowing; TransCal is still making money. In fact, with the current spike in oil prices with no corresponding decrease in production, I would say TransCal is enjoying some substantial windfall profits. Their stock has gone up by seventeen percent in the past month, if I’m not mistaken — although why their dividend predictions have gone down so drastically is still a mystery. Less than a dollar a share in dividends from a company making record profits and hasn’t paid below a dollar a share in almost ten years?”

“I would guess that they’re preserving capital to keep their business afloat if those pipelines are destroyed.”

Maureen said nothing, just studied Martindale over her cigar and nodded noncommittally, wondering if he’d gotten that information directly from the horse’s mouth. TransCal may have already spoken to Martindale about supporting his run for the presidency in exchange for his promising more protection for their overseas ventures.

“The point, Maureen, is that our government should be doing more to protect the interests of Americans overseas, including business interests,” Martindale said. “We shouldn’t have to pay ‘protection money’—we should be doing whatever is necessary to ensure that foreign governments and businesses live up to their contracts and promises.”

“Mr. Martindale,” Hershel said, letting the pungent smoke stream out of her mouth slowly and seductively, “the president feels, and I agree, that if we tried to enter this conflict with military might, the insurgents would destroy the pipelines, just as the Iraqis did as they were forced to withdraw from Kuwait.” She put down the cigar after taking another long draw. “But in any case, even if the United States was able to wipe out all the insurgents without causing any damage to the pipelines, what then? The Turkmen government is obviously not strong enough to protect the pipelines. If another group of Taliban came in, we’d be faced with the same dilemma. Do you suggest the United States set up a permanent presence in Turkmenistan to protect the pipelines?”

“If that’s what it takes, yes!”

“Mr. President… Kevin, you should realize that’s not possible,” Hershel said calmly. The more wound up Martindale got, the calmer and more introspective Maureen made herself. “The United States is not in the business of providing mercenary services for the benefit of private companies.”

“No one is asking the United States to supply mercenaries,” Martindale argued. “The United States should use its military power and influence to restrain other outside powers from disrupting the business of the legitimate government. We had a deal with President Niyazov. TransCal spent almost eight billion dollars to build those pipelines and infrastructure—”

“Kurban Gurizev is in power now.”

“Gurizev is a Russian stooge,” Martindale said acidly. “He was against the TransCal deal right from the start. He wants to increase his own wealth and prestige by getting the Russians back into Turkmenistan so they’ll back him as president. Then TransCal will be forced to renegotiate the contract with the Turkmen government.”

“That sounds very likely,” Hershel said matter-of-factly.

Martindale stared wide-eyed at the deputy secretary of state. “I’m glad you find favor in my analysis,” he said sarcastically. “Does that sound fair to you, Maureen?”

“From TransCal’s point of view, I shouldn’t think so,” she replied. “From Gurizev’s perspective it sounds like a perfectly reasonable and rational idea.” She could see Martindale getting angrier by the second. “Kevin, I’m sure TransCal knew what they were getting into when they made this deal. I’m sure they knew that Turkmenistan was and still is a virtual dictatorship. TransCal knew about Gurizev and all his close ties to the Russian government, they knew that the Russians still extracted huge amounts of oil and gas from the country, and they knew that the Russian army still had a large presence there. They knew the risk — as did your government, sir. Yet you met with President Niyazov and brokered this deal for TransCal.”

Hershel’s staff had definitely done their homework before this meeting. He wondered if Maureen Hershel had even touched cigars until this meeting was set up.

“Why isn’t the CIA keeping you better informed on what’s happening out there?” he asked, hoping to change the subject quickly.

“We have assets everywhere, as you know,” Hershel said, “but we can’t see everything. However, I’m sure TransCal was briefed and fully understood the risks when they signed the deal with President Niyazov.”

“Frankly, Maureen, we were able to sign a deal back then because my government made it very clear that it would enforce the law, no matter where in the world it was violated,” Martindale said acidly. “If Thorn showed even a fraction of the backbone my government had, we probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Well, I can, and that’s how I see it.” Martindale paused for a moment, then sat back, picked up his cigar and puffed it to life again. “Tell me, Miss Hershel,” he asked, “what happened to Secretary Kercheval?”

“Nothing has happened to Secretary Kercheval,” she replied.

“There’s a rumor around that he’s taking medication for Parkinson’s disease.”

“He was given a completely clean bill of health in his last physical. He hasn’t told us a thing about Parkinson’s.”

“There’s also a rumor that he’s extremely displeased with President Thorn’s overall handling of foreign affairs and that he may retire rather than continue to serve in this administration.”

“I’ve heard nothing of the kind.”

“There seem to be an awful lot of ugly rumors circulating around all of a sudden, Miss Hershel — and they correspond closely to your frequent appearances at the White House recently. How do all these rumors get started, Maureen?”

“You should know, Kevin.” She shifted slightly, an amused glimmer in her eyes. “You talked about it on Crossfire last week, remember?”

“Will Secretary of State Kercheval resign over the Turkmenistan issue?”

She retrieved her cigar and sat back in her seat, her eyes riveted on his. She knew he was trying to interrogate her, and she sent up a cloud of cigar smoke as a screen in front of her. “No,” she replied.

“Are you being considered to replace Kercheval, like it says in the press?”

“I’ve been asked to spearhead a State Department position paper on Central Asian affairs for Secretary of State Kercheval,” Hershel replied. “I retain my position as deputy secretary of state. Mr. Kercheval is still in charge of the State Department, a valuable member of the administration, and a trusted adviser and friend of the president. That’s all.”

“Sounds like a carefully scripted talking point — as if you were preparing for the Sunday talk shows,” Martindale said.

Hershel said nothing, only stared at him through the cloud of pungent smoke.

“You have been with the State Department for seven years, but the FBI Counterintelligence Operations Office for twelve. Why did you leave that office?”

“Counterintelligence — like the military, I believe — serves diplomacy,” Maureen replied. “I preferred to be on the policy side of diplomacy rather than on the operations side.”

“But you were a good spy-catcher, Maureen — one of the best, according to my sources,” Martindale said.

She did not respond — except with her eyes. Those very blue eyes suddenly adopted what soldiers called the “thousand-yard stare,” as if she were reliving some event triggered by his question, watching the replay as if it were being projected onto the back of Martindale’s skull and she was looking right through him at it. The cloud of Lars Teten smoke only served to heighten the sense of mystery and danger.

“You miss it, don’t you, Maureen?” Martindale asked in a low, almost seductive voice.

Again she did not reply — but he could see his response in her eyes.

“Maureen,” he went on, “what sorts of efforts has the president directed the State Department to pursue on the diplomatic front in regard to Turkmenistan?”

“My study is one response,” Maureen said. “But the president usually doesn’t direct anyone to do anything. He tells the cabinet what he will support and what he expects, and they go forth and do the job.”

“The chief of staff doesn’t coordinate efforts between the cabinet members…?”

“The vice president acts as chief of staff, and, yes, he does have meetings and coordinates activity via e-mail, but the cabinet officers call the shots and then report directly to the president.”

“I’m curious, Maureen: How does the cabinet know if what they’re doing is what the president wants done?”

“It’s not that kind of organization, Kevin. The president just lets the cabinet members do their jobs. They listen to the president, he tells them what he’s thinking, and… they leave and go back to their offices and do what they think needs to be done.”

“How does that system work for you?”

“I’m new at this, but it seems to work just fine, every day.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working fine now, does it?” Martindale commented. “And it didn’t work in Egypt, or Libya, or Kosovo, or Russia. It seems like Thorn’s foreign policy is a hopeless mess.”

“That’s not an accurate characterization at all.”

“So I’ll rephrase my question, Maureen: What are you doing about the Turkmen situation?”

“I’m in daily contact with the foreign minister from Turkmenistan and delegates from the United Nations,” she replied. “We are also in contact with representatives of all the other parties involved, including the Taliban, who are represented by the Saudi Arabian embassy.”

“And?”

“And we’re trying to get an official sense of exactly what the different factions have in mind before we issue a policy statement to the American people,” Hershel replied. “The president believes in carefully studying a situation; getting official, nonofficial, and intelligence information; and reaching a consensus with his advisers before making a decision.”

“Sounds like a fancy way of saying Thorn’s not sure what he wants to do and he’s stalling for time.”

“Again I disagree with your characterization.” She paused, then asked, “If I may ask, sir, what’s your opinion regarding this matter?”

“I believe the United States is the greatest nation on earth and the protector of liberty, freedom, justice, and democracy for the rest of the world,” Martindale said. “I also believe in concepts as simple as ‘a deal’s a deal.’ If Gurizev thinks he can hand over control of eight billion dollars of American pipe and petroleum infrastructure to the Russians, or if these Taliban insurgents think they can disguise their invasion of Turkmenistan as a fight for freedom and take American pipelines, they’re seriously mistaken.”

“First of all, Kevin, the Americans don’t own those pipelines — the people of Turkmenistan own them,” Hershel said. She held up a folder that had been sitting on the table beside her. “TransCal takes forty percent of all the income they earn from crude, refined products, flowage, duties, transshipment, storage, and even futures, for the next fifty years, in exchange for the cost of building and maintaining that system. A pretty sweet deal. According to the IRS, they’ve already recouped half their investment in Turkmenistan’s oil industry in just three years, and by the looks of it they’ll move into the black in less than two years.”

“And I’d like to make sure they have a chance to make it there,” Martindale said.

“With the help of the U.S. military,” Hershel said.

“Like you said, Maureen, the military is an important extension of foreign policy.”

“May I ask you, Kevin, if the CEO of TransCal Petroleum, William Hitchcock, has decided to spearhead your reelection campaign?”

“Bill Hitchcock and I are old friends. He’s a successful businessman and strategist, and he’s supported me and the party for years,” Martindale said. “If he offered, I would consider myself lucky to have him in my corner, in a variety of capacities. But I’m not here discussing Turkmenistan because TransCal’s pipelines are in great jeopardy — although they are. I’m here because intervening on their behalf is the right thing to do. The military is supposed to protect the American people.”

“The people, yes — not their bank accounts.”

Martindale just stared at Maureen without commenting.

“Speaking for myself, Kevin, I don’t see that many differences between my opinion of President Thorn and your position. President Thorn wants justice and freedom, too, but he doesn’t believe in using the military in every conflict, especially overseas. What do you think you’d be doing right now?”

“I certainly can’t speculate on that, because I don’t have access to the information you have.” He saw Hershel smile. It was well known that Martindale kept himself actively involved in foreign affairs, even to the point of supporting a quasi-mercenary group known as the Night Stalkers to perform clandestine paramilitary operations all over the world. “But I think I’d be taking a much more active leadership role — conferring closely with allies, sending high-ranking officials to Turkmenistan to talk face-to-face with those involved, and speaking more openly and forcefully on the subject to the American people at every opportunity. I think President Thorn has his work cut out for himself just winning back some allies. He’s done practically everything possible to destroy our alliance structure.”

“So you think I should be on the plane right now to Turkmenistan?”

“I think if President Thorn cared at all about American business and American prestige overseas, not to mention the faith and trust the American people have in him and his government, he should have put you on a plane to Turkmenistan last month.”

Hershel nodded, then turned and called, “Isadora?”

A moment later a tall, dark-haired woman appeared, dressed in a business outfit every bit as nice as Maureen’s. Martindale leaped to his feet as if propelled by a hydraulic lift — he couldn’t take his eyes off the woman.

“Mr. Martindale, may I present Assistant Deputy Secretary of State Isadora Meiling. Izzy, this is Kevin H. Martindale.” He aimed his People magazine smile at her, drinking in her deep, dark eyes. “Let’s get authorization and clearance for that SAM flight to Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, right away.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She favored Martindale with a mind-blowing smile and hurried off.

As mesmerized as Martindale was, his attention was drawn away by the shock of Hershel’s order. “You… you’re going to Turkmenistan? Now?”

“Right now.”

“What about your preparation? Don’t you have security arrangements to make, briefings to organize, meetings to set up with foreign office officials, communiqués to the embassies, coordination of agreements and position papers…?”

“The planning for this trip was already in the works,” Hershel said. “I’m sure we’ll overnight in Washington, maybe meet with the director of Central Intelligence and get the latest situation reports. That’ll give the staff a day or two to organize. But it’s a long flight to Turkmenistan. I imagine we’ll be busy the entire way.”

“What about your appearances scheduled for the West Coast?”

“I think this is much more important, don’t you?” Hershel asked sincerely, watching Martindale carefully.

Martindale did not—could not — answer. He would never pass up any large political rallies or appearances, especially with major West Coast media involved, in favor of going to a shithole like Turkmenistan with virtually no press and the possibility of considerable personal danger involved. But if he said it wasn’t important, he would be contradicting himself.

He didn’t need to answer. Maureen Hershel could see the dilemma in his face. Instead of replying, he asked, “How do you know the Turkmen government will even allow you into the country?”

“You’re right. They might not like a State Department official poking her nose into their backroom dealing.” She looked over at Martindale. “But there’s one way to entice them to agree to see us.”

“What’s that? Offer them financial assistance?”

“Even better than that — I should bring you along. Would you like to accompany us, Kevin?”

“Me? Go to Turkmenistan with you? Now?”

“I’m going to make the last scheduled appearance here in San Francisco, but right after that we’ll be off,” Hershel said. “I figure in about three hours. What do you say?” Martindale hesitated. “I’m sure Miss Meiling will be busy, but I think she’d enjoy your company.”

He could think of a dozen things he had on his schedule that couldn’t be missed, and with no prep and no real agenda, the trip would likely be a total flop. There wasn’t even a guarantee that Hershel would be allowed to meet with any of the principals involved. But the opportunity to get a glimpse of the inner workings of Thorn’s foreign-policy team in action couldn’t be missed either. And, naturally, the happy thought of spending some time with Isadora Meiling sealed the deal. “Of course, Miss Deputy Secretary. I’d be happy to accompany you.”

“Good. I’ll tell her you’ll be accompanying us. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“I do have one question,” Martindale said.

“Fire away.”

“What are your rules about disclosing conversations discussed during the trip?”

“You mean are we going to allow you to talk to the press about what you see and hear on this trip?”

Martindale said nothing, but Hershel knew his silence meant yes.

“President Thorn believes in completely open and honest disclosure with all American citizens, even potential political adversaries. We may exclude you from some discussions, but if you see or hear anything, you’re free to discuss it or mention it to anyone you choose.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the president’s position.” I would never allow the same, he thought, but if Thorn wanted to deal his cards faceup like this, all the better. “At the same time I assume that the president will make as much political hay as he can about my participation in this trip.”

“I suppose it’s possible — to the extent that the president makes any political hay at all,” Hershel said. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll see something in this administration that appeals to you, and we can convince you to support the president’s reelection campaign?”

“If the president wanted my help, he could have asked me.”

“The president doesn’t often ask for help, especially from those he considers political rivals,” Hershel said. “Perhaps he was wrong in this case?”

“It sounds as if you’re heading up Thorn’s reelection campaign, Maureen.”

“If the president asked me to do so, I’d be honored.” Hershel smiled and nodded. “Very good. I’ll leave you to head back and get ready for the trip. A car will pick you up.” She shook hands with him. “I think this will be an educational journey for both of us.”

He shook her hand and then, as they were heading for the door of her hotel suite, asked, “Miss Hershel, Turkmenistan is a… rather dangerous place right now. Do you think it’s wise to be going there at this time?”

“I suppose if we go and we come back safe, folks will say it was a successful and worthwhile trip — and if we get hurt or killed, they’ll say it was a stupid move,” she replied. She shrugged. “I can’t really answer that question, Kevin. I know we have work to do out there, and I think at this stage in the game, a personal visit is warranted. I guess we can’t always go on diplomatic missions like this only when it’s safe, can we?” She shook his hand again. “It’ll be fine, Kevin. I’ll see you on the plane.” She hurried off, leaving him alone in stunned silence.

What in hell did I just get myself into? he thought grimly.

“Pompous ass,” Maureen Hershel said to Isadora Meiling as she returned to her makeshift office in an adjacent room. “Still, I have to give the bastard credit. He agreed to go on the trip, even though he knows how dangerous it is.”

“I’m wondering if you fully understand how dangerous it is, ma’am,” Meiling said. She held up a red-covered folder marked classified. “Latest intelligence reports state that Russian transports are arriving in the capital, offloading a lot of Russian officers and communications equipment. CIA speculates the Russians are putting together a wartime command infrastructure. And there’s something about Iranian troops moving toward the borders, maybe preparing for some kind of military action.”

“Izzy, I let myself get sucked into this. It’s too late to back down now,” Hershel said.

“You most certainly do have options — starting with canceling this trip. Deep down inside, Martindale will be breathing a sigh of relief if you cancel. Then he won’t be putting his tight ass on the line.”

“But then he’ll be publicly slamming me for backing down in the face of the war threat and not doing enough to stabilize the situation,” Hershel said. “I have to go.”

“Please bring along some security,” Meiling said. “At least a couple platoons of Marines, in addition to the security staff at the embassy. We’ll request the reinforcements right away.”

Hershel thought for a moment, then smiled. “No. I’ve got a better idea. Get General McLanahan at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base on the line for me. Tell him I need some security support right away.”

“Battle Mountain is an Air Reserve base. They don’t have troops stationed there. You mean Quantico or Cherry Point—”

“No. McLanahan has the forces I want,” Hershel said. “And he won’t need another logistics flight to move them, either. He’ll have them ready and waiting for us in Washington by the time we get back, you’ll see. We’ll need diplomatic credentials for them. Make sure they have those ready for us.”

“That’ll take time. Turkmenistan doesn’t process those kinds of requests quickly — no one in Central Asia does.”

“But I predict Mr. Martindale won’t have any difficulty getting a visa,” Hershel mused. “Credential McLanahan’s people as embassy security personnel.”

“That’ll use up our only allotted short-notice personnel-changeover slot for this year.” To help prevent introducing spies into their countries and to help the nation’s internal security apparatus to track foreigners, Turkmenistan, like many other countries, allowed embassy security personnel to change only once per year if there was less than thirty days’ notice.

“That can’t be helped,” Hershel said. “I don’t think Turkmenistan will be a very friendly place in the near future anyway. We might end up pulling everyone out soon. And if we can ultimately help that country, they’ll agree to give us all the personnel we want.”

“You’re going to take a supplemental security force to Turkmenistan on board your own plane? That’s impossible. An embassy-reinforcement team usually deploys in a separate C-141 or C-17….”

“They’ll come in our plane,” Hershel said with a smile, “and they’ll look like the rest of us — until they get inside the embassy. Get Patrick — I mean General McLanahan — on the line for me right now.”

“ ‘Patrick,’ huh?” Izzy Meiling asked with a mischievous smile as she used a secure telephone to dial the communications center at the federal building in San Francisco. “Someone out there in Nevada made an impression on you, I see.”

“He’s definitely off-limits until I can find out what’s happened to him over the past few months — something very tragic and horrible,” Maureen said. “The guy might have scar tissue in place of his heart, and that’s the last thing I need in my life.”

“But you care enough to find out?”

“I want him to tell me what’s happened, not some Pentagon intelligence wonk,” Maureen said. “But… yes, I think he’s worth pursuing. Anyone who can stand up to the president of the United States when he’s on the warpath has got some nerves of steel.”

“Not to mention a big pair of you-know-whats,” Izzy said.

“Get him on the phone and wipe that smirk off your face, sister, or I’ll sic Kevin Martindale on you again.”

“Hey, I can put up with a lot of nonsense for the kind of money that guy has,” Meiling said. “A whole lot.”