Air Battle Force

Seven

“Attack target one.”

“Attacking target one, stop attack,” the computer responded. A moment later the laser-radar array on the AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft instantly measured the distance to the target, then electronically measured the size of the target and moved the laser’s aimpoint to the aft one-third of the target, where the rocket motor was. Then a carbon-dioxide laser was fired through the main laser’s optics at the missile, which measured and compensated for atmospheric distortion by predistorting the mirror in the Dragon’s nose.

“Laser ready,” the attack computer reported moments later.

“Laser attack missile,” Major Frankie Tarantino responded.

“Laser attack, stop attack.” Next the big plasma-pumped, solid-state laser came to life. Pellets of deuterium-tritium plasma fuel were ignited by a dozen low-power lasers, creating a sphere of superhot plasma — atoms stripped of their electrons — exceeding the temperature of the sun itself. Confined, compressed, and then channeled by a magnetic field and by chambers made of walls of liquid lithium, the plasma energy was directed into a laser generator, which produced a laser beam over twice the power of any other airborne laser ever built. The laser beam was collimated, intensified through the laser tube running the length of the aircraft, reflected off the steerable/deformable mirror in the nose, and shot into space.

The AL-52’s aircraft commander, Air Force Colonel Kelvin Carter, didn’t see or hear a thing — no pulsing beam of light shooting off into space, no alien glow, no sci-fi warbling sound — and all he felt was a slight rumbling under his toes as the massive deformable mirror turret moved, smoothly tracking the targets far off in the distance. When he looked over at the supercockpit display on the mission commander’s side of the instrument panel, all he saw was a spark of light, then detonation.

“Splash one Archer!” Zipper Tarantino exclaimed, patting the top of the glareshield of his beloved Dragon. He had just shot down a supersonic air-to-air missile fired from the Russian MiG-29 Fulcrum from over two hundred miles away in less than twelve seconds with two bursts of laser light. “Good Dragon.”

“Good shooting, Zipper,” Carter responded. Kelvin Carter, from Shreveport, Louisiana, had been one of the senior flight-test pilots at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. Along with Patrick McLanahan and Nancy Cheshire, he knew more about the Megafortress series of bombers than anyone else, so he was the logical choice as the operations officer of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, flying the incredible AL-52 Dragon.

As familiar as he was with the modified B-52 bombers that he’d helped develop at Dreamland, Carter was still amazed by the weaponry at his command: a two-megawatt, plasma-pumped, solid-state laser, the most powerful non-land-based, directed-energy weapon in the world. Seconds earlier, as he’d sneaked a peek at Tarantino’s wide-screen supercockpit display, he’d been looking at the telescopically enhanced image of a Russian air-to-air missile actually in flight. But almost as soon as the image had appeared on the screen, Tarantino had placed a set of crosshairs directly on the rear motor section of the missile — and then it was gone in a burst of fire.

The image then switched to the second missile and, with one command—“Attack target two”—Tarantino had initiated the attack sequence. Moments later the second AA-11 Archer air-to-air missile had disappeared in a ball of fire, well short of its prey: the U.S. Air Force C-32A VIP transport, carrying former president Kevin Martindale, Deputy Secretary of State Maureen Hershel, and their entourage.

Now the image in the full-color supercockpit display wasn’t one of a Russian missile — instead it was the image of a real live Russian fighter pilot, clearly visible in extraordinary detail through the cockpit of his MiG-29 Fulcrum jet fighter. Zipper could see the straps on the pilot’s oxygen mask, see the bulky helmet-mounted sight that controlled his air-to-air missiles, and even see that he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater under his flight suit.

“Hot damn!” Carter exclaimed. “You got the Russian pilot himself dead in your sights, Zipper. You’re clear to engage.” Tarantino then changed the laser’s aimpoint to the MiG’s left wing root, the spot where he knew an explosion would quickly and instantly send the fighter completely out of control. “Put the aimpoint back on the pilot,” Carter grumbled.

“What?” Tarantino asked.

“I said put the crosshairs back on that sumbitch.”

“Sir, it won’t matter—”

“Son, that bastard is looking over his shoulder, probably back to where he fired his Archers,” Carter said. “This bastard just shot at an unarmed, defenseless diplomatic aircraft. Fry his ass.”

Tarantino rolled the trackball aiming device smoothly until the pilot’s image was again centered on the supercockpit display, then locked it in. Carter followed the steering commands presented on his heads-up display; seconds later, they received a ready indication. Carter thought Tarantino might hesitate — but he didn’t. The crosshairs appeared, he saw a blinking l in the upper center of the display…

And seconds later the MiG-29’s cockpit canopy disintegrated. They watched in horrified fascination as the pilot’s head was jerked backward and his helmet, skullcap, and oxygen mask were ripped off by the sudden wind blast. For a second the Russian was able to pull back up and began fighting for control of his fighter — when Carter and Tarantino saw the Russian’s head, shoulders, and upper torso turn black, as if the pilot had instantly turned into a big lump of charcoal. Sections of his corpse started flying away in the slipstream, until moments later there was nothing left but unrecognizable pieces of his lower torso. Then the cockpit around the corpse burst into a bathtub of sparks and flame, milliseconds before a massive fireball erupted from behind the corpse and obliterated the image. When Tarantino zoomed out, all they could see were burning hunks of the MiG-29 fluttering through the sky.

“Jee… sus,” Tarantino breathed.

“I’ll bet he don’t feel much like a bad-ass aerial assassin now, does he?” Carter said. He looked at Tarantino, who was not moving, just staring at the supercockpit display. “Son, don’t you dare feel sorry for that rat bastard. Any man who can pull the trigger on an unarmed plane full of civilians deserves to get his ass cooked. And he sure as hell would’ve joyfully put two Archers into us if we let him get close enough.”

“I know it, sir,” Tarantino said. “But it doesn’t make killing a man any easier.”

“You’re not an airman — and you’re sure as hell not a man — if you agree to use your talent and skills to fly a mission to kill defenseless men and women,” Carter said. “Be thankful you ridded the world of a mindless bloodsucker like that. Now, pat your Dragon on the head like you always do, say thank you, and let’s find out how our folks are doing.”

Tarantino still didn’t move.

“Did you hear me, Zipper?”

To emphasize his point, Carter punched instructions into one of his multifunction displays. The beam-control telescope switched back to target number one: the C-32A VIP transport. The adaptive optics showed the plane in remarkable detail. Carter was even able to zoom in on the cockpit windscreens, showing both pilots working together, quick-don oxygen masks on, checklists out. The readouts still showed the plane in a descent, getting below Ashkhabad’s radar. “See that, Zipper? Our guys are still alive and still flyin’. You did good, son. You’re a defender, not a killer.” He put his gloved hand out and clasped Tarantino’s left shoulder, firmly but gently. “You gotta understand the difference, son. Otherwise you might as well not be wearin’ that uniform.”

He didn’t think Tarantino heard him, thought the kid might be heading toward the deep end — until he saw the young officer reach up and pat the glareshield. “Good Dragon,” he said in a strong, resilient voice. “Good Dragon.”

“There you go, son,” Carter said approvingly. Some guys never made it back to the world after scoring their first kill. He knew that Frankie Tarantino would — eventually — be okay. “There you go.”

Jalaluddin Turabi spooned the last of the rice into his mouth, pretending that its stale, bug-infested taste was really the savory juices from succulent lamb mixed with exotic Chinese spices. He knew he was the last man in his company to be fed, so that spoonful also marked the last of their rations. And he didn’t need to pick up his canteen to know that their water had almost run out, too. Damn it all, where in hell was their resupply flight? He knew that Aman Orazov was an incompetent asshole, but certainly even he could muster enough brainpower to load a few helicopters with supplies and fly it out here.

Abdul Dendara, Turabi’s first sergeant, stepped over a few moments later and began to speak, but Turabi held up a hand. “Let me guess: We just ran out of fuel for the power generator?”

“That ran out an hour ago, sir, remember?” Dendara replied. “We just ran out of water.” He took Turabi’s canteen and replaced it with another, which had about a liter of fluid in it. “You may want to pour it through your shirt first to filter it. It was the last drop from the metal emergency barrels we scrounged from Yagtyyol last night. I got out as much sand and rust as I could.”

“Thank you. Any possibility of getting more water from the city?”

“Power is still shut down — we can’t get water from the wells,” Dendara replied. “Unless General Zarazi can get the power turned back on from Mary, we’ve taken every drop of water from that entire town.” He paused, then added, “I can order a patrol to start going house to house, looking for water….”

“I already said no, Abdul,” Turabi said. “The people out here are suffering just as much as we are. If the homes are evacuated, you can take water from there — make sure every cistern, every shelf, every refrigerator, and even every toilet tank has been searched — but if the house is occupied, stay away from it. I’ll personally execute any man who disobeys my order. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word again.”

“Do that,” Turabi ordered. “Now, assuming our men hoarded half their normal daily ration of water, we should last—”

“Until tomorrow morning,” Dendara responded. “Then we’re out of war-fighting mode and fully into survival mode.”

Turabi checked his watch, then nodded. “We won’t wait until then. If we don’t get supplies within four hours, we’ll head back to Mary.”

“Very good, sir,” Dendara said.

When his first sergeant walked away, Turabi tried the radio. He knew he was ordered to maintain radio silence, but this was an emergency. Breaking off this scout patrol before discovering what the Russians might be up to was very dangerous. Abandoning it for the sake of a few hundred liters of water and diesel fuel from just a few kilometers away made even less sense. He keyed the mike: “Hawk to Condor. Come in.” No answer. He tried several more times — nothing.

Turabi took the canteen and drank the last of its contents, grimacing as he swallowed what tasted like welding beads. Shit, he thought, I’ll just as likely die of lead poisoning as I will from enemy action. He knew that hoarding water would do no good — in the desert, one rationed sweat, not water — but he knew also that desperate, scared men would save a liter or two of water on their persons.

He noticed Dendara come running a few moments later, and Turabi stepped quickly toward him. “What is it now, Abdul?”

“Just got word from one of our patrols that came back from Mary. The Russians attacked Mary last night,” Dendara said. “Heavy bombers with cruise missiles and antiradar missiles, all from standoff range.”

“Oh, shit,” Turabi said. “That’s why we didn’t get a resupply chopper, and that’s why the radio’s been down. Any word on General Zarazi?”

“Nothing.” Dendara looked worried, which was unusual for this veteran warrior. “What are we going to do, sir?”

“We go back to Mary at once and link up with the general,” Turabi said immediately.

“But the Russians… don’t you expect another attack?”

“It doesn’t matter, Abdul. Wakil Zarazi is our leader. If he’s alive, we’ll follow his orders. If he’s dead, we’ll avenge him on every Russian we can get our hands on, and then I’ll take command of the brigade.”

“And then what, sir?”

Turabi hesitated, but only for a moment: “And then I’ll lead the brigade home,” he said.

“Home…?”

“Home to Afghanistan, home to our families and our tribe,” Turabi said. “This fight is Zarazi’s fight, not mine. If Zarazi is alive, we are honor-bound to follow his orders. But if he is dead, once we have avenged his death, I take command — and in my eyes and in my heart, we have accomplished our mission, the one given to us by our tribal elders. We shall return home, turn over our equipment to the elders, and then reunite with our families.”

“Then… then Zarazi’s mission is… false …?”

“Not false, at least not in his heart,” Turabi said. “He truly believes that he is carrying out God’s wishes, and that is good enough for me and for all of us. Every Taliban leader must search his heart and make the right decision. My decision will be different from Wakil’s, but that does not make either one false. Get going now. Organize the patrol, and let’s head back to Mary.”

“Hawk, this is Snake,” one of the lookouts radioed just then. “Scouts report a chopper inbound from the south with slung cargo. Looks like a water tank.”

Thank God, Turabi thought. “Acknowledged,” he replied. They needed ammo and diesel to continue this flanking patrol, but they absolutely needed water first. One of the helicopters had survived, and they thought of using it to resupply this patrol. It was a surprisingly heads-up thing for Aman Orazov to do. “Make sure the air-defense squads are on their toes. Don’t let anyone get complacent.”

“Acknowledged.”

Turabi looked out across the sands and saw Dendara shouting orders to his platoon commanders, telling them to maintain watch while the helicopter came in. Many times the enemy sneaked in while the men were preoccupied with their relief-supply helicopter.

But his orders were useless. Sure enough several dozen of the men — mostly Turkmen recruits, but a fair number of his Taliban tribesmen followed along as well — were running in the direction of the incoming helicopter, gesturing frantically for it to touch down. Some were waving canteens and buckets, and one man even waved his SA-14 shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapon. That fool was going to get disciplined, Turabi vowed — loudly, painfully, and publicly. He would see to it himself.

The supply helicopter was coming in fast and very, very high, at least five or six hundred meters in altitude. With Russians possibly in the area, he was taking an awfully big chance coming in so high. It was hard to see clearly, but it appeared that the load was on a very short sling, meaning that the pilot would have to hover closer to the ground to unsling his load — which would kick up plenty of sand and dust and make unslinging the water tank that much harder. Poor discipline, he decided. He would have to see to setting up a retraining course for his chopper pilots as soon as he got back to Mary.

The helicopter pilot was obviously confused by the onrushing soldiers — and no doubt by the idiot waving the shoulder-fired missile in the air. He swung sharply to the west, the slung load arcing dramatically to the right. Turabi was about to shout out an order to his men… when he took a close look at the underslung load. Several of his men, closer to the helicopter, stopped and pointed at the load in confusion as well. It was not a water tank, or a diesel-fuel bladder, or a supply net.

It was a bomb, an incendiary bomb, pointing downward, resembling a huge cylinder with a long fuse on its nose and stabilizing fins on the aft end. The pilot was not swerving to get away from the soldier with the SA-14 missile — he was swerving to toss the bomb toward Turabi’s patrol while he turned away to get as far from the blast as he could. And, as he watched, the bomb fell away from the helicopter directly at his encampment.

“Take cover!” Turabi shouted, waving his arms downward. “Take cover! Incoming!”

“Get down!” he heard a voice shout. It was his first sergeant, Abdul Dendara. Turabi turned just in time to see the man plow into him at full force, pushing him into the trench Turabi used as a temporary command post. Dendara then leaped in right after him, covering Turabi’s body with his own.

Turabi looked up and was about to order his first sergeant to get the hell off of him — just as a bright flash of light instantly turned the dawn into high noon in summertime. Seconds later he heard several loud pops, followed by an ear-shattering explosion. Turabi saw Dendara pulled backward as if caught in a powerful vacuum, seemingly sucked right back out of the trench.

And then Dendara’s body was instantly turned to a cloud of ash as the sky — no, the very air — was transformed into a wall of white-hot fire.

Turabi rolled over onto his belly and buried his face in the sand as the ocean of fire raged barely two meters above him. He felt his clothing and skin turning to flame, and he covered the back of his head with his bare hands and screamed and pleaded for God to take him before he could feel himself burn to death. The searing heat crept up his legs, and he could do nothing else but slap and kick the fire out and try not to expose any more of his body to it. What a nightmarish way to die, he thought. At least poor Abdul got the privilege of dying instantly, not bit by bit like this….

It was the powerful explosion itself that saved him. The furious blast and overpressure swept hundred of kilos of sand down into the trench, extinguishing the spontaneous flames that burst out all over Turabi’s body and threatened to broil him to death, creating a thin but effective layer of insulation over him.

He had no idea how long it was before he awoke. At first he thought he’d been buried alive, but he found he could easily move aside the sand and create enough space to take a deep breath. The sand felt very warm, almost hot, but it didn’t seem to be burning him. He experimented with his limbs and neck, trying each body part carefully, and found himself in pain but able to move, with no apparent serious injuries. Turabi reached above himself and found that his hand had popped out of the sand. He struggled to his knees and then to all fours, brushing sand from his face, marveling that he was still alive and dreading what he might find above.

The first thing he found, praise be to Allah, was a squad of his fellow Taliban soldiers searching the area. They had managed to chase away the Russian attackers, Turabi thought happily. He looked over and saw Aman Orazov himself, standing on an armored vehicle, listening to a verbal report from one of the men. Yes, Orazov was an ass, but right now he was surely a welcome sight. Turabi thought it appeared to be about midmorning — he might have been unconscious for three or four hours. He brushed more sand out of his ears as he hunted for a foothold on the edge of the trench.

As he did, he heard Orazov say, “Excellent. Looks like our attack worked perfectly.”

Turabi let go and immediately dropped back down into the trench. What in hell did he mean, “our” attack?

“Negative, sir,” he heard another soldier say — another Turkmen turncoat, like Orazov. “There’s no sign of any living thing here. One hundred percent casualties. Everything that was aboveground was incinerated. The fuel-air explosive worked exactly as planned.”

It wasn’t a Russian attack? It was Orazov? Their own men had attacked them? Impossible…!

No, not impossible. For Orazov it was very possible. It clearly meant that Wakil Zarazi was dead also. Orazov had obviously betrayed Zarazi and then undertook his first mission: to kill Turabi and the rest of his patrol. He probably intended to win favor back from his former Turkmen officers or the Russian army, once they’d completed their reoccupation.

Jalaluddin Turabi knew that his mission had now changed. Instead of capturing booty for his tribe back in Afghanistan, Turabi’s new mission was simple: avenge Wakil Zarazi’s death. He was sworn to do it. Orazov had to die, and by Turabi’s own hand. Nothing else in life mattered. Zarazi might have been misguided, blinded by some invisible, mystical calling — but he was still the leader, and Turabi’s new duty was to avenge him. Then he could lead the loyal survivors back home, tell the elders what had happened, and prepare to take command of the tribe — or face the wrath of the elders.

But he couldn’t confront Orazov now. That would be suicidal. He had no choice but to play dead and hope they would go away.

Turabi slinked back into the sand, slowly, carefully nudging it aside, intent on burrowing back down and burying himself. Standard procedures would be to search the trenches for survivors or bodies — he hoped Orazov was lazy or stupid enough to merely look around, decide there were no survivors, and go back to Mary. Maybe, maybe, if he did so, Turabi could escape, make his way back to their stronghold in Chärjew, then assemble a fighting force, sneak back to Mary, and carry out his new mission — kill Orazov.

Turabi was about three-quarters of the way back under the sand when he heard the first dog bark. Shit, he thought, maybe that Turkmen pigfucker Orazov wasn’t so stupid after all — he’d remembered to bring guard dogs with him. Turabi fairly dove into the sand, but it was too late. Seconds later two scrawny whelps jumped into the trench. One clamped his jaws onto Turabi’s left hand, and the other took a bite on the back of his neck and right ear before grabbing his right sleeve. Soon men were leaping into the partially sand-filled trench, and Turabi was dragged over to Orazov’s vehicle and thrown onto the blackened desert floor.

“Well, well, the colonel is still alive,” Orazov said, jumping down from his armored vehicle. “What a pleasant surprise. We should search all the trenches for survivors.”

Turabi was held suspended by his arms between two Turkmen soldiers. Several surviving Taliban soldiers from his detail saw Turabi and rushed over to him but were pushed aside by more Turkmen soldiers. “Brilliant idea, Orazov,” Turabi muttered.

“Is that any way to talk to your rescuer?” Orazov asked.

At a nod from him, one of the Turkmen soldiers punched Turabi in the side of his head. The Taliban soldiers surrounding them shouted a warning and tried to rush to Turabi’s aid but were again roughly shoved back. Orazov didn’t seem to notice — he was too intent on seeing Turabi suffer some more.

He stepped closer to Turabi and pulled his head up by his hair. “You’ll wish you had died in that fuel-air blast, Turabi, I guarantee it.”

Turabi tried to spit in his face, but he no longer had any moisture in his mouth at all. “What has happened to Zarazi?” he asked.

“The same that will happen to you, Turabi: I’ll put a bullet through your stupid head, watch your brains splatter on the wall behind you, and then I’ll wrap you up in a carpet and have you buried in the desert,” Orazov said.

“You’ll die for that,” Turabi croaked through dry, cracked lips. “I’ll slice out your heart myself.”

“You didn’t believe in the old man’s holy mission any more than I did, Turabi. You’re just too blinded by that idiotic clan-loyalty nonsense to realize it,” Orazov said. “Forget about your ridiculous blood oaths and feudal allegiances, Turabi. Spend your last moments on earth thinking about this entire useless mission of yours in Turkmenistan and how badly you wasted the last few weeks of your life, waging a war with an idiot like Zarazi who thought he was fighting for the greater glory of God. Spend the next moments looking at the faces of your loyal men — because they’ll join you in hell in a few minutes, too.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of a giant trench dug in the desert, where men and vehicles were dumping the remains of dozens of horribly burned and mangled men. “Good-bye, Colonel. Give my regards to General Zarazi — in hell.”

Unable to stand and only half conscious, Turabi was dragged off toward the mass grave. He heard shouting and then gunshots behind him, followed by laughter, some shouted words in Turkmen, some screams, more gunshots, and more laughter. His men were being slaughtered trying to save him. He especially heard Orazov’s screeching, high-pitched laugh, more like a young girl’s than a man’s. “You will have plenty of company in hell, Colonel,” Orazov shouted with glee. “Your men seem more than willing to sacrifice themselves trying to save you!”

Turabi shut his eyes to try to erase Orazov’s bizarre little shrieking laugh out of his head, but it was impossible. If anything, the sound started to grow louder and louder, until Turabi thought his head would explode from the pressure.

And then, suddenly, the entire world around him did explode.

Orazov’s armored vehicle disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke not twenty meters away. Turabi and his captors were tossed off their feet by the blast. An earthmover on the other side of the mass grave exploded seconds later, followed by a light tank parked about a hundred meters away.

It was then that Turabi recognized that screeching sound, what he’d thought was Orazov’s laughter — it was the same sound he remembered hearing what seemed like eons ago, when their little band of Taliban fighters was attacked by American unmanned drones. But it couldn’t be. The Americans were not involved in this. Could it be the Russians…?

Turabi’s captors ran off to find cover, leaving him by himself. Still dazed and hurt, he needed all his strength to drag himself by his elbows and knees toward the mound of sand surrounding the grave. It was the only cover he could—

“No!” he heard a voice shout behind him. “You will not get away so easily!” And suddenly Aman Orazov was sitting on Turabi’s back, his hands under his chin, pulling backward and trying to break his neck, or his back, or both. “I promised I would finish you off, and I will!”

“Bastard!” Turabi shouted. Using the last of his strength, he bucked Orazov off his back. Struggling to his hands and knees, with pieces of burned metal and hot debris digging into his skin, Turabi withdrew his knife from its sheath.

But Orazov was on top of him again in an instant, and he quickly and easily took the knife away from Turabi. Exhausted, Turabi was powerless to stop Orazov from rolling him over on his back.

“This is the better way to die, I think — hand-to-hand, face-to-face, by your own blade.” Orazov raised the knife….

But it did not come down. Turabi looked up — and saw a figure in a dark gray outfit, a bug-eyed helmet, and what appeared to be small tubes running along his arms, legs, and torso. He held Orazov’s upraised arm in his hand, and no matter how hard Orazov struggled, the stranger held his arm with ease.

With a shock Turabi realized he recognized the stranger. It was the same one he had encountered south of Kiyzl-arvat when he went out to investigate the drone crash.

“Prasteetye,” the stranger said in Russian in an eerie, electronically synthesized voice. “Ya eeshchyoo Jalaluddin Turabi.”

“Shto eta znachyeet?” Orazov shouted. “Who in hell are you?”

With Orazov distracted, Turabi was able to respond, “I am Turabi. Good to see you again, sir.”

The stranger nodded, then flipped his wrist. Orazov screamed and flew back as if hit by a bull charging at full force, his right arm twisted unnaturally. Turabi unsteadily crawled across the scorched sand, picked up a rock, and started to crawl over to where Orazov was lying holding his arm. “What are you doing?” the stranger asked in Russian.

“I must kill this man, to avenge my mission leader.”

“You are barely conscious, and he is like an injured animal,” the armored stranger said. “Better leave him alone.”

“I am honor-bound to avenge my leader’s death.”

“We have more important things to do.”

“I cannot think about saving my own life while my leader lies murdered in a shallow grave in the desert, betrayed by that man, whom he trusted,” Turabi said. “This I cannot stand.”

“The fate of a nation may be in your hands, Turabi,” the stranger said. “Why not go after him later? Or I will have him taken into custody, and you can deal with him later.”

“That is not the law,” Turabi replied. He was still crawling toward Orazov. The Turkmen soldier was now on his feet, muttering something. Orazov had slipped his broken arm inside his shirt to support it. Within seconds he had found the knife and held it before him, ready to defend himself or attack if presented the opportunity. He was warily eyeing the big stranger, wondering if he was going to intervene in their fight, but because the stranger was no longer even looking at him, Orazov decided he was going to let the Afghan and the Turkman fight it out.

“Nike, this is Taurus, I still show you at the objective point,” Colonel Hal Briggs radioed a few moments later via their secure satellite commlink. “What’s the holdup?”

“We have a slight cultural dilemma to address here first, sir,” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl replied.

“At the moment I don’t care about cultural dilemmas — I want our target exfiled out of there now,” Briggs said. “We’re on a tight timetable. Move out.”

“Yes, sir.” Wohl went over to Turabi, picked him up by his load-bearing harness, and said, “Sorry, sir, but you have to come with me, right now.”

“No!” Turabi screamed. “Put me down!”

Orazov incorrectly interpreted Wohl’s action as coming to his rescue. He shouted happily and charged, the knife raised high. Turabi tried to kick free, but he couldn’t break Wohl’s microhydraulically assisted grip.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Wohl muttered. “Some bozos just don’t know when to quit.”

As he held Turabi aloft with his right hand, he grabbed the knife away from Orazov’s right hand, then butted the Turkman with his left forearm. Dazed, Orazov dropped to the ground. Wohl dropped Turabi, who fell onto his knees, still weak from the fuel-air explosive attack — and then he dropped the knife right in front of Turabi.

“Finish him off, sir,” Wohl said in electronically translated Russian. “And I’ll have you know, sir, that if you let him kill you, my ass will be in a sling.”

For a moment it looked as if Turabi would just kill the guy, and they could be off. But the Turkmen traitor fought like a bull, and he knew that Turabi was still weak. Turabi pounced on Orazov and was just a few inches from plunging the blade into the traitor’s chest, but Orazov was able to grab his wrist and hold the blade away.

“You can’t kill me, Turabi,” Orazov said, laughing. He glanced at the armored stranger and smiled when he realized he wasn’t going to make a move to help either side. “Die like a man in front of that outsider. Roll over on your back and drop the knife. I’ll make it quick — just like I did Zarazi.”

That was not the correct thing to say to a man bent on revenge. Turabi’s eyes blazed, he let out a loud, animal-like howl, and then head-butted Orazov on his nose. Orazov’s vision exploded into a field of stars — but then went instantly dark as Turabi thrust the knife into the Turkman’s chest.

“Forgive me, Allah,” Turabi said, reciting the prayer of absolution, “but allow me to be the instrument of vengeance for the faithful.” He twisted the knife with his last remaining gram of strength, felt a fount of warm blood wash over his hand, then held the knife in Orazov’s chest until the flow of blood ceased.

“Nike, what in hell is going on over there?” Briggs radioed. He could peek into Wohl’s electronic visor via the satellite datalink built into the Tin Man battle armor and see what Wohl was seeing, and at the moment all he could see was Turabi lying on the bloody corpse. “Is that the target lying on that DB? What’s he doing?”

“He’s resolved that cultural dilemma I mentioned a moment ago, sir,” Wohl replied. He grabbed Turabi by his LBE harness again as if he were a rag doll, then took the knife away from him. “We’re on the move now, sir,” he added, just before he jet-jumped away.

“So the American aircraft disappeared off radar and has not been detected since?” Kurban Gurizev, the president of Turkmenistan, asked after reading the conclusions of the report from the air force general standing before him. Unlike most of the Turkmen around him, Gurizev was short, his eyes were blue, he had skin tanned from the harsh sun instead of being olive-complexioned. Although born in Turkmenistan and a resident there most of his life, he spoke in slow, choppy Turkmen, with a definite and clear Russian accent. “What in hell happened?”

“There was a great deal of electronic jamming and false-target propagation just prior to losing radar contact,” the general elaborated. “Both Ashkhabad Control and Baku Control were affected. We were not able to ascertain if the aircraft hit the Caspian Sea or if—”

“My God, we are all dead men… dead men!” Gurizev breathed. “The Americans are going to come in and crush us! Who in hell did this?”

“Sir, the Russians had numerous air patrols all around the country. It was obviously one of their fighters that brought the American down,” the general said. “All aircraft were warned repeatedly of the danger of flying into the area. The Americans ignored those warnings; the crew unexpectedly and illegally broke off normal air-to-ground communications and most likely began responding to false commands, and it made unusual and provocative maneuvers in violation of air-traffic-control orders. They were in the wrong.”

“And it was attacked by a Russian MiG-29 when it—”

“We do not know that for certain, sir,” the general said. “The facts as we know them, sir, were that a Russian fighter patrol was in the area but never made any move toward the American aircraft; that the American aircraft broke off contact with air-traffic control for no reason and began making violent, unexplainable maneuvers; and that contact was lost with the plane. That’s all we know.”

“The Americans are going to bury us,” Gurizev cried. “We might as well start digging our graves right away.”

The telephone in the office rang. An aide picked it up, listened, then hit the “hold” button. “Mr. President, it’s Thomas Thorn, the president of the United States. He wishes to speak with you.”

The short, beefy president of Turkmenistan pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, dabbed his forehead and lips, took a nervous gulp of water, then picked up the telephone. “This is President Kurban Gurizev speaking,” he said in broken English. “To whom am I speaking, please?”

“This is President Thomas Thorn calling from the White House, Mr. President,” came the reply. “This is an emergency, sir. I must speak with you immediately.”

“I assure you, I have been notified of this unfortunate accident, and all of my country’s resources will be immediately mobilized to determine what has happened.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “But I can tell you precisely what happened.”

“You can?” Gurizev asked, perplexed.

“We already know that our diplomatic mission was attacked by a Russian MiG-29,” President Thorn said, as calmly as if he were talking about a nice glass of wine. “We know this because as we speak we have air-defense and reconnaissance aircraft flying over Turkmenistan, and one of our planes detected the attack on our diplomatic aircraft and destroyed the MiG-29.”

Gurizev didn’t understand everything Thorn said — but he did understand “MiG-29,” and his blood ran cold. My God, he thought, just minutes after the attack, and the Americans knew about the MiG…?

“President Gurizev, are you still there? Do you need another translation?”

“Yes… yes, I am here, Mr. Thorn… er, Mr. President,” Gurizev stammered. “Ah… we have no information whatsoever that there was any attack.”

“I see,” Thorn said. “Nonetheless, we have incontrovertible proof that such an attack took place, and we shall soon release this data to the world. You may want to ask your military advisers if the MiG ever made it back to its base. I can tell you, sir, it did not. It was destroyed.”

Gurizev jabbed a finger at another phone, and the air force general picked it up and called his headquarters. “This… this is most unusual, sir,” Gurizev said. “We… we shall of course immediately investigate your information.”

“Please do,” Thorn said. “We regret the loss of life, but it was necessary to save the lives of former president Martindale, Deputy Secretary of State Hershel, and the others on that plane.”

“How was the pilot killed, sir, if as you claim you have only reconnaissance and defensive aircraft over Turkmenistan?”

“I’d rather not reveal how at this time, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “But it was an American warplane that shot the MiG down — after we observed him attacking our diplomatic mission with heat-seeking air-to-air missiles. We have even identified the missiles — they were AA-11 ‘Archer’ missiles, what the Russians call the R-73M2, one of Russia’s most advanced weapons.”

Gurizev looked over at his air force chief of staff, and when he saw the man’s blank, confused expression, he had to carefully suppress a gasp. “Could you hold the line, please?”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Gurizev placed the call on hold with a shaking hand. “Get that son of a bitch Russian military liaison officer over here now!” The air force officer issued the order, listened, then peered at the phone. “What in hell is it now?”

“The operator cannot contact the Russian defense liaison’s office. There is no answer.”

“What?” The Turkmen chief of the general staff grabbed the phone away from the air force commander. He barked orders into the phone, but soon he, too, was dumbfounded. “No response from the Russian liaison, and now the direct line to my office is completely out. What in blazes is going on?”

“Could this be true?” Gurizev thundered. “The Russian fighter was shot down—by an American combat aircraft?”

“The MiG should have already returned to Krasnovodsk,” the general said, checking his watch. “It would have run out of fuel long ago.”

“Could it have carried the weapons Thorn described?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Yop tvayu mat!” Gurizev swore loudly in Russian. He often forgot his adopted Turkmen language when he was nervous, excited, enraptured — or scared. “How in hell could the Americans know all this?”

“They must have sent stealth aircraft over our country to escort the American diplomatic aircraft,” the chief of staff said as he stood with the phone to his ear. “We must assume that the Americans have more such aircraft overhead right this very minute.”

“My God… this cannot be happening,” Gurizev muttered. “This is unbelievable.” He looked at the phone in his hand, then punched the blinking line button. “President Thorn, I apologize for placing you on hold. We are unable at this time to get independent confirmation of your assertions. We must be allowed to investigate this matter further.”

“President Gurizev, you can’t get through to your Russian liaison officer and your defense staff because the Russians have cut off all government communications going in or out of the capital,” Thorn said. “We have detected several cargo planes landing at Krasnovodsk and Ashkhabad. Assuming each plane holds only one hundred soldiers plus their equipment, we estimate at least a battalion-size invasion force is marching against your position right now.”

“A Russian invasion force? Why?”

“My guess is Russia intends to take over the government to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Taliban or any other foreign power,” Thorn said. “You have only a few minutes to evacuate your offices — it may already be too late. Mr. President, if you need my help, ask. Give me permission to send military forces into your country, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

This time Gurizev didn’t bother putting the call on hold — he was too scared or confused to know what to do with his hands. “Where is Kasimov? Why is he not briefing me on the state of our air defenses or of Russia’s intentions? I pay that bastard a lot of money to advise me — he had better get in here immediately!”

“He hasn’t been heard from in several hours, sir,” the chief of the general staff replied. “I’m trying every office—”

“President Gurizev…”

“Kharasho, Thorn!” Gurizev said. “All right, I agree. I want your help. I don’t know what the Russians want here. You have my permission to send in any forces you desire to protect myself and my staff. Just get us the hell out of here!”

“A few questions first,” Thorn said. “Who ordered the attack on the Taliban forces outside Mary?”

“I did.”

“And the commando insertion?”

“I received an execution order from President Sen’kov about nine hours before they were ambushed.”

“Who ordered the attack on the deputy secretary of state’s plane?” Thorn asked.

“I don’t know,” Gurizev said. “When the commandos were ambushed by the Taliban, Gryzlov issued a warning order to seal off our airspace and send in bombers to blast hell out of them.”

“Did Sen’kov sign the execution order for the blockade and the air raid?”

“If he did, I never saw it,” Gurizev said. “If he had, I certainly would have rescinded the authorization for the diplomatic visit.”

“Why didn’t you rescind the authorization after the Taliban’s attack on Mary or when Sen’kov authorized commandos to be inserted near Mary?”

“Sen’kov wanted you to see what the Taliban had done,” Gurizev said. “He wanted to prove they were the instigators, not us!”

“But then why seal off the airspace after the diplomatic flight left Bahrain?”

“I didn’t know anything about the Taliban ambush outside Mary, about the air raid, or anything about the blockade, except for the warning order,” Gurizev replied. “I asked for clarification of the order, but I haven’t spoken to anyone in Moscow in days — and I haven’t seen my Russian liaison officer either, the one who is supposed to keep me apprised of such actions!”

“You did not receive the execution order?”

“After the Taliban ambushed those commandos, I received no more communications from Moscow. Sreka! All I wanted was for the Russians to stop those Taliban insurgents.”

“You’d better make your way out of there, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “Take a cellular phone with you and dial this number now.” Thorn gave him a coded number unlike any regular phone number.

Gurizev dialed it. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“You don’t have to do anything. In a few moments we’ll pick up the digital signal from your phone by satellite, and we’ll be able to locate and track you as long as you’re in range of a cell site,” Thorn said. “We’ll send in rescue forces as quickly as we can. Now, get out of there!”

Gurizev simply dropped the corded phone, pocketed his cellular phone, and shouted, “Did you get in contact with anyone yet? Can anyone tell us where the Russians are?”

“Something’s wrong… now I can’t get through to the defense-operations center,” the chief of the general staff replied. “The line is completely blank.” He waved the air force general to wait on the phone for him, then said to Gurizev, “Sir, I recommend you evacuate the capital. Your car should take you out of the city immediately. Once we’re safe, we can decide where to go.”

“Then let’s get out of here!” Gurizev shouted. “Have my armored car waiting in the secure parking facility immediately!” He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, with his staffers and military advisers close behind.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a dozen Russian soldiers with assault rifles drawn burst into the president’s office and roughly shoved everyone back into the room. Cowering against a wall, they were ordered to place their hands on their heads.

“What is this?” Gurizev shouted, hoping that his voice would soon stop shaking. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Colonel General Boris Kasimov, the Russian liaison to the Turkmen general staff, walked in, holding an AK-74 compact assault rifle in his hands.

“There has been a change in leadership, Mr. President,” Kasimov said in Turkmen. “I’m under orders from General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation’s military forces. He has declared martial law, and he has ordered that I take over as leader of Turkmenistan during this national emergency.”

“What in hell are you talking about?” Gurizev exploded. “Get that gun out of my face! I demand that you leave my office immediately.”

“You have no need to make demands, Mr. President,” Kasimov said. “All you have to do now is relinquish the last bit of your authority. Allow me to assist you.” At that, General Kasimov braced the AK-74 against his right hip and fired a three-round burst into Gurizev. The president was dead before his eviscerated body hit the floor. “Now, is there anyone else who would like me to further explain the situation here?” Kasimov asked. Complete silence. “Very good.” He motioned to his soldiers, and they took the Turkmen away at gunpoint.

Kasimov picked up the telephone. “President Thorn?” he asked in very good English.

“This is Thomas Thorn. Whom am I speaking to, please?”

“This is Colonel General Boris Kasimov of the Army of the Russian Federation. I am an adviser and liaison to the Turkmen government regarding national defense and manpower.”

“Gdye Rookavadeeteel Gurizev?” Thorn asked in Russian.

“I have been asked to inform you that General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation, has declared martial law in the Republic of Turkmenistan under the terms of the Treaty of Friendship, Cooperation, and Mutual Defense between the Russian Federation and Turkmenistan signed in 1991 and in accordance with the Treaty on Joint Citizenship signed in 1993, which also provides for Russian involvement in the defense of Turkmenistan,” Kasimov said in English, ignoring Thorn’s question. “General Gryzlov has directed that I assume the duties of president and commander in chief of the armed forces of Turkmenistan during the emergency.”

“Mozhna mnye pagavareet’s Rookavadeeteel Gurizev, Colonel General?”

“Unfortunately, the president is not being allowed to take calls, Mr. President — now or ever,” Kasimov said matter-of-factly. “I must inform you, Mr. President, that the actions of your armed forces over Turkmenistan have been monitored and analyzed by Russian military forces, and they are the principal reason for the imposition of martial law.”

“Ya nee paneemayoo, Colonel General.”

“I would be happy to explain. The downing of our MiG-29 was a completely unprovoked and irrational act of murder. You have introduced deadly offensive warplanes without permission over sovereign Turkmen airspace. Since these are stealth aircraft, designed and employed to deliver weapons of mass destruction on a first-strike, preemptive basis, the presence of such aircraft over Turkmenistan represents a deliberate act of war between the United States and the Republic of Turkmenistan. Under the provisions of the treaties between the Russian Federation and Turkmenistan, the actions of the American military forces over Turkmenistan have left us no recourse but to declare a state of war between the United States and the Russian Federation.”

“What are you saying?”

“The following regulations are to be imposed immediately,” Kasimov went on, as if reciting a well-rehearsed script onstage. “American citizens who are not representatives of the U.S. government have twenty-four hours to leave Turkmenistan, or they may be detained at a location of our choosing without cause or explanation for an indefinite period of time. Any diplomatic or embassy personnel may stay but will be restricted to the embassy in Ashkhabad.

“Any uniformed Americans entering or already inside Turkmenistan without my express written permission shall from this moment forth be considered combatants and will be treated per the Geneva Conventions. Finally, any agents of the American government without proper credentials verified by the Russian government will be treated as hostile enemy provocateurs and will be imprisoned, tried by a military field tribunal, and, if found guilty of espionage, summarily executed. Do you understand all these things, Mr. President? I do not wish for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

“Ya paneemayoo, Colonel General,” Thorn replied.

“In English, Mr. President — I would not want you to claim that you gave the wrong response because of your poor command of the Russian language.”

“I understand, Colonel General,” Thorn said in English. “Now, you had better understand this. Are you listening, Colonel General? I would not want you to claim you did not hear or understand my response to you. I shall provide you with a translator if you would like.”

“Please proceed, Mr. President,” Kasimov said with laughter in his voice. “I need no translator. And please speak in English. My command of English is much better than your Russian, I’m afraid.”

“Very well. You may tell President Sen’kov and General Gryzlov that the United States will use every tool at our disposal to protect and defend American interests anywhere in the world, including the Republic of Turkmenistan.”

There was silence on the line for several minutes. Finally Kasimov asked, “Is that all, Mr. President?”

“That’s all, Colonel General.”

“Well, I will certainly pass along your dire warning to my superiors,” Kasimov said, the humor still evident in his voice. “In the interest of safety, Mr. President, may I suggest that you inform me of the whereabouts of any American agents or combatants in Turkmenistan right now? If they agree to give up their weapons and go peacefully with my men, I promise to you that they will be released unharmed to your embassy in Ashkhabad within twenty-four hours. Is that agreeable to you, sir?”

“That is a very reasonable offer, Colonel General.”

“Then you do have combatants inside Turkmenistan, sir?”

“We do.”

Kasimov paused, obviously surprised to hear Thorn admit to all this. “Well, then, sir, I think we can quickly come to an agreement to protect and preserve these men’s lives. Please advise me what forces you have in Turkmenistan, their approximate numbers, and their locations, and we shall attempt to make contact with them. If your military commanders can inform them that we have a deal to protect them, no harm should come to them.”

“I don’t know their exact designations, Colonel General,” Thorn said. He paused for a moment, then said, “Could you hold the line for a moment, Colonel General?”

“I’m very busy, Mr. President. It can be only for a moment.”

“Thank you.”

What in hell was he doing?

A few moments later another voice came on the line: “Colonel General Kasimov?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Major General Patrick McLanahan, United States Air Force,” Patrick McLanahan replied. “I have been directed by the president of the United States to answer your questions regarding our forces in Turkmenistan.”

“Is this some kind of joke, General?”

“I’m just following orders, sir.”

“Very well. What ground forces do you have in Turkmenistan right now?”

“We have one Battle Force team on the ground now, outside Mary and in Chärjew.”

“And the composition of this team?”

“Eight soldiers, plus a support team of twelve.”

“Eight? I assume you mean eight squads, or perhaps eight companies…?”

“No, sir. Eight men.”

“One squad? Eight men?” Kasimov said warily. He thought that this McLanahan was joking with him now, but the man seemed perfectly at ease and forthcoming. Was this some kind of game? “Any other combatants in Turkmenistan, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel General.”

“How many? Their description, please?”

“Stealth warplanes,” McLanahan said casually. “All defensive in nature, but quite capable of supporting our forces on the ground.”

“How many?”

“The number changes with the threat,” McLanahan said. “The more troops you send in to Turkmenistan and the more targets we uncover during our reconnaissance, the more stealth aircraft we’ll send.”

“For what purpose, sir?” Kasimov asked. “What is your intention?”

“First of all, Colonel General, the Russian Federation just declared war on the United States,” McLanahan said. “So we damned well will destroy any Russian aircraft, vehicle, or warship we encounter. For example, I’m looking right now at a squadron of eight Mi-28 attack helicopters parked outside a hangar at Krasnovodsk Airport. It appears they’re being fueled and readied for a mission.”

“We have no such helicopters at Krasnovodsk, sir.”

“Ah… well, you certainly don’t anymore, Colonel General — because they’ve just been destroyed,” McLanahan said casually.

Kasimov motioned to an aide, who immediately lifted a radio to his lips. They did indeed have Mi-28s at Krasnovodsk, and they were indeed getting ready to deploy them, first to Ashkhabad to cover the occupation of the city, then to Mary to start hunting down the Taliban. “You find this humorous, General McLanahan?”

“It’s certainly an unusual way to go to war, isn’t it, Colonel General?” McLanahan responded. “Now I’m looking at an intelligence-gathering vessel several miles off the coast from Krasnovodsk in the Caspian Sea. My intelligence officers tell me that it is a Type 394B-class spy ship and that it was probably responsible for trying to spoof our diplomatic-mission aircraft into going off its flight plan, where your fighters would then have a reason to shoot it down. The ship has Cyrillic characters and the number five ninety-one on the side — yes, that checks, it’s a Type 394B, the Kavkaz, if my information is correct.”

“The Kavkaz is an unarmed communications vessel, sir, not a spy ship!”

“Your ‘unarmed communications vessel’ just fired two heat-seeking missiles at our stealth warplane, Colonel General,” Patrick said. “And… it appears our aircraft was just hit… yes, we’ve just lost that aircraft.”

“You don’t seem too upset, General.”

“I’m upset to lose any aircraft, sir, even an unmanned one.”

“Unmanned…?”

“Yes, General. Tell your sailors on the Kavkaz good shooting — and then tell them to prepare to abandon ship. Because I’ve just committed two more stealth aircraft to sink the Kavkaz.”

Kasimov covered the mouthpiece of the telephone when he saw two of his aides grabbing the radio from each other, their eyes wide in surprise. “Well? What in hell is happening?”

“Krasnovodsk is under attack, sir!” one of his aides said.

“What?”

“Several helicopters and transport planes were destroyed, and the command post, a power facility, and the radar site were heavily damaged. The air defenses all came under attack by precision-guided weapons and cluster bombs.”

“Are you still there, Colonel General?” McLanahan asked over the phone.

“I demand to know what is going on here!” he cried.

“You declared war on the United States, Colonel General, and the United States is responding,” McLanahan said. “May I make a suggestion? You should undeclare war on the United States — right away.”

“Are you insane, General McLanahan? What kind of nonsense is this?”

“Colonel General, you tried to intimidate President Thorn by making this ridiculous declaration of war, thinking that the president was going to be cowed into not acting while you moved more troops and heavier weapons into Turkmenistan,” Patrick said. “Well, it didn’t work. The United States is already in Turkmenistan, and we have stealth warplanes orbiting your military installations in Ashkhabad and Krasnovodsk right now. Unless you call off this declaration of war, we will continue to locate and attack Russian military targets that we feel are a threat to U.S. forces and interests.”

“I… I must report your demands to General Gryzlov and the general staff—”

“You’ve got sixty seconds to do so, Colonel General,” McLanahan said, “before two of my stealth aircraft launch missiles at the Kavkaz. The next target will be your office in Ashkhabad. We are obviously not in your office at this time, but I would warn any staff members you have in your headquarters building to evacuate within the next two minutes.”

“What is it you want, General? What are your intentions?”

“The United States has no intentions, Colonel General,” Patrick replied. “It is Russia who declared war on the United States, Russia who fired on the deputy secretary of state’s aircraft, Russia who has assassinated President Gurizev of Turkmenistan, Russia who is threatening to imprison and execute Americans in Turkmenistan, and Russia who is invading Turkmenistan on a pretext of protecting it. Russia’s intentions are clear: You want to take Turkmenistan, and you’re willing to kill anyone who gets in your way.”

“That is not true, sir! Russia wants only to protect the peace and sovereignty of an important ally and friend. It is the Taliban insurgents that threaten the peace! We have an obligation to—”

“Excuse me, Colonel General,” Patrick interrupted, “but we just put four mini-Maverick missiles with thermium-nitrate warheads into the Kavkaz. Our aircraft will come around for another pass, and that should do it for the Kavkaz—it’s already listing pretty well to starboard. You have ninety seconds before I put four missiles into Twenty-eight President Niyazov Avenue, southwest facade — that is the address of your headquarters in Ashkhabad, isn’t it?”

General Kasimov banged the telephone receiver down with a half-furious, half-terrified, half-human cry. “What is going on with the Kavkaz?” he shouted.

“No contact with the ship as of yet, sir,” an aide replied.

“This is a nightmare!” Kasimov shouted in complete frustration. “This cannot be happening!”

“Shall we order an evacuation of the headquarters building?”

“Yes, damn it, get everyone out of—”

Just then there were several bright flashes of light from outside, like flickers of lightning. Seconds later there were several loud, sharp explosions that rattled the windows and caused the lights to flicker. “Oh, my God!”

Kasimov’s aides ran to a window. Kasimov didn’t need to look for himself — their slumping shoulders told him everything. “Fires have broken out in the headquarters building!” someone shouted. “Shit… another one! Another explosion!” The rattling windows and reverberating explosions were like hammer blows on Kasimov’s skull. “We’re under attack!”

Kasimov picked up the telephone, but it was dead — and moments later all the lights went out in the office as well. “Get the damned power back on immediately! And then get me General Gryzlov in Moscow—right now!”

“Peace be unto all true servants of God.

“My friends and neighbors of the Republic of Turkmenistan and any within the sound of my voice, my name is Jalaluddin Turabi. I am not Turkmen. I was born in Afghanistan, raised as a true servant of God. I believe in the oneness of God; I believe that Mohammad is His true prophet; and I believe with all my heart in the Day of Judgment and the resurrection of the faithful in the arms of God.

“I am also Taliban. I know this immediately brands me and my people as fanatical, fire-breathing murderers. But I tell you this: We are what we are, and that is as our name says, ‘seekers of the truth.’ We do not know the truth; we do not profess the truth; we do not attempt to impose our knowledge or opinion of the truth on others.

“The knowledge that we have is passed along to us from a council of elders, chosen from each of a province’s clans. This council of elders directs activities of each clan or groups of clans. These activities are organized into either siyaehiyya, or tasks, and jihads, or sacred missions. In my case I was appointed to undertake a jihad to secure weapons, equipment, and funds for the council. My friend, Wakil Mohammad Zarazi, was my leader. We trained together in Iran and Sudan as members of Hezbollah to employ military and commando-style weapons and tactics to fulfill our missions and to train others in those tactics.

“Our mission inside Afghanistan was not successful. We lost many men, but Wakil Zarazi survived a deadly assault, and he led us to the Turkmen frontier. He believed that his survival was an act of God, and he dedicated himself from that day forward to serve God by bringing together the faithful into a strong army that could resist all nonbelievers, no matter how rich or powerful they were.

“Wakil Zarazi did many evil, despicable things because he believed that God told him to do these things. For this I ask God for forgiveness, and I apologize to the people of Turkmenistan, because as his friend and soldier, I obeyed his orders and helped him do these things. He lost the way of the leader and warrior because he believed that was what God wanted him to do. When he put me in charge of his armies, I sought to follow the ways of a true warrior as well as a jihadi. I served my leader and God by remembering that a leader succeeds not by fear and intimidation but by strength and leadership.

“Wakil Zarazi is dead, assassinated by a man he trusted — a Turkmen soldier, Aman Orazov, who joined our ranks after the siege of Kizyl-arvat. He was one among thousands of Turkmen men who joined our jihad, but he was the only one to betray its leader. As is our custom and responsibility after the assassination of a leader, I avenged Wakil Zarazi’s death by killing Orazov with my own hands. I am now in command of Zarazi’s army.

“I have been proud to serve this jihad, and I am proud of my soldiers. I am equally proud of your Turkmen brothers who joined our jihad. Although by Taliban law and custom I now decide how best to accomplish this jihad, I realize that I have a responsibility not only to my fellow clansmen and fighters from Afghanistan but to the Turkmen who joined Zarazi’s jihad. The men from Turkmenistan fought with our army not because we paid them or offered adventure but because they believe as we do: that we can create a special place in the deserts of this country. Turkmenistan is wealthy beyond imagination, yet its people, the faithful, don’t seem to be enjoying the benefit of living in this harsh, lonely place. With your help we can change this.

“The situation is this: Your president, Kurban Gurizev, has been brutally assassinated by Colonel General Boris Kasimov, the Russian liaison to the Turkmen government. Many Russian army regiments have already entered the capital. Yet the Russians do not as yet control Turkmenistan. The reason: The United States of America has intervened in this conflict and has sent air and ground forces to face the Russians.

“My brothers, I know you have no cause to love the Americans, just as you may not love the Russians. Both nations have sought to take your substantial mineral wealth at far less than market price and at the same time conspire with unscrupulous bureaucrats in your government for payoffs in exchange for lucrative development contracts. But the Americans rescued me from certain death by the Russians and by Aman Orazov, and they are here, standing by and awaiting your word. Before he died, President Gurizev authorized their presence in Turkmenistan, although the Russian army is in charge, under the pretext of abiding by a mutual-defense treaty between Turkmenistan and the Russian Federation.

“You may choose not to believe my words, but I tell you, it is the truth: The Russians want nothing more than to crush the Taliban and deter any other Muslim groups from gaining a foothold in Turkmenistan. They mean to crush all Muslim participation in government and stamp out any thought or attempt at equity for the Muslim majority, as they do in Chechnya and other republics and provinces.

“I know you have no reason to believe me. I am an outsider. I attacked your towns and cities, fought your soldiers, and took your property. I also know that for many decades the Russians have protected Turkmenistan — first as conquerors and dictators in their empire, but later as neighbors and partners, although for mostly self-serving reasons. You may consider them your friends and defenders and consider me your enemy.

“But I will say this, and then leave you to consider my words. Wakil Zarazi entered your country several weeks ago with a band of exactly two hundred and seventy-one men in a caravan of battered old pickup trucks. Today Zarazi’s army numbers over twenty-seven thousand. Zarazi’s army may have begun with a handful of Taliban desert raiders from Afghanistan fleeing from a Western assault, but we have transformed into a fighting force composed of soldiers from all over Central Asia — but mostly men from Turkmenistan. I never realized it until now, but the army once led by Wakil Zarazi, the army I command today, is in reality a Turkmen army, not a Taliban or Afghan army — the first Turkmen army since Alexander the Second of imperial Russia not to be commanded by a Russian.

“So the choice is yours, my brothers and sisters of Turkmenistan and all of Central Asia. If you reject me, I will take what remains of my army and go home. If there is another among you who wishes to lead this army, have him step forward and present himself to me and the troops. But if you wish it, I will continue to battle for independence from Russia. You will know where to find me — as will the Russians.

“This battle will be one of two kinds: a battle for survival for myself and my men or a fight for freedom and independence against General Gryzlov and the Russian army. Make your wishes known to me — I will be listening. Thank you, and may God bless you and your families, and grant you peace.”

The broadcast, played live on world news channels, ended, and the military and political analysts began discussing the speech.

“He did a good job,” Rebecca Furness said. “But he’s a fucking Taliban. They won’t have him lead their troops. He’ll be lucky to get out of the country alive.”

She and Daren Mace had been listening to Turabi’s speech via satellite on Diego Garcia. They had already finished their first patrol period after arriving in-theater, a total of eighteen hours and three aerial refuelings — which did not include the sixteen hours and three aerial refuelings it had taken for the first flight of EB-1 bombers to fly from Battle Mountain to Turkmenistan.

After refueling over the Arabian Sea just south of Pakistan, Rebecca Furness and her First Air Battle Force team flew at very high altitude over Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan, evading their surveillance and air-defense radars. They were able to stay on patrol over their assigned area in Turkmenistan for about three hours before having to depart and go back to the refueling track. Each crew flew three such patrols, a total of eighteen hours, before landing at Diego Garcia.

They had been on patrol all over the countryside, responding to surveillance and attack requests, but had not fired any weapons. The AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser aircraft were the primary air-defense aircraft, with the manned Vampires flying as backups. The manned Vampire bombers carrying three rotary launchers: the forward launcher carried sixteen AIM-120 Scorpion medium-range air-to-air radar-guided missiles, the middle launcher carrying ten AIM-154 Anaconda long-range hypersonic air-to-air missiles, and the aft launcher carrying eight AGM-165 Longhorn ground-attack missiles.

Each Air Battle team had two unmanned aircraft in its formation, each of which carried four StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicles on a rotary launcher in the middle bomb bay. The forward bomb bay contained extra weapon clips for the StealthHawks, and the aft bomb bay carried a spare fuel tank that could be both used to refuel the UCAVs or used by the bomber itself in an emergency. Each UCAV carried six AGM-211 mini-Maverick missiles with thermium-nitrate warheads.

Rearming and refueling the StealthHawks proved to be a simple engineering feat, accomplished with technology and equipment they already had at Battle Mountain. After retrieval each StealthHawk was locked on to the rotary launcher and rotated to the top of the Vampire’s middle bomb bay, with the UCAV’s own bomb bays open and facing upward. Six-round clips of mini-Mavericks were slid over from the forward bomb bay, lowered into the StealthHawk’s upturned weapons bay, and locked into place; at the same time a refueling line filled the UCAV’s fuel tanks. The forward bomb bay held twenty-four weapon clips. If necessary a StealthHawk could be rearmed and relaunched less than five minutes after retrieval.

Typically the unmanned Vampire bombers would arrive over their patrol area, release their StealthHawks, return to the air-refueling track to refuel, return to the patrol area, retrieve the StealthHawks, refuel and rearm them if necessary, then repeat the process. As long as they had fuel and weapons, the process could be repeated indefinitely.

Now Rebecca and Daren were in their detachment headquarters on Diego Garcia on “crew rest”—which meant supervising their team’s refueling and reloading, reviewing intelligence data, and planning their next patrol. They took catnaps when able, alternating attendance in meetings and inspections, then filling the other in as they went off in search of a quiet closet to take a nap. They still had six hours in which they hoped to be able to get some real rest, but that was probably going to be impossible.

“All Air Battle Force participants, this is Bravo. Stand by for an intelligence update,” Brigadier General David Luger announced via the secure satellite datalink. “As of the top of the hour, satellite-reconnaissance and intelligence data indicates that the Russian air force is mobilizing an additional three bomber and fighter regiments. Along with the fighters at Saratov and the bombers at Engels, we’re now seeing activity at Astrakhan and Volgograd. This makes a total of six bomber and five fighter regiments mobilized in the past six hours. All of these regiments are within normal unrefueled combat radius of the various aircraft involved. In other words, we believe with high probability that all of these regiments are being mobilized for action over Turkmenistan.”

“That’s not good news,” Daren said. “Wonder what the boss is going to do?”

Rebecca looked over at Daren and smiled. “Well, I just want you to know, Daren, that the work you’ve done since you arrived here has been nothing short of amazing,” she said. “I never thought we’d have this capability — that we’d be flying around up here while a couple B-1 bombers are cruising nearby with us with no one on board. It’s a freakin’ miracle.”

“Thanks, Rebecca,” Daren said. He reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. He then realized what he’d done and was expecting a rebuff, but he didn’t get one. “It’s been great working with you again — although this cockpit is sure as hell different from the last one we went to war in.” He paused, looking at the satellite imagery and analysis data being presented on the supercockpit display in front of him. “Wonder what the general is going to do?”

“I don’t see he has much choice. He’s got to withdraw,” Rebecca said. “Nine regiments — that’s as many as a hundred and twenty aircraft, if the regiments are fully staffed. We’re outnumbered twenty to one, and I don’t think even the airborne laser or what few weapons we have in place can make up for that.” She looked at Daren. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right,” Daren said after a long pause. “It would be better if we had some help — a couple B-2 stealth-bomber squadrons and a few fighter wings for starters. Otherwise, we can hold out just long enough to get our guys out — if that long. The Russians have too many planes too close to Turkmenistan. It’s too easy for them to surge numerically superior forces.”

“So McLanahan has to pull back.” She gave Daren a wry smile and added, “That’ll be a first. I don’t even think he knows how.”

“I’m sorry things have escalated to this point, Mr. President,” Thomas Thorn said. He was seated in the Oval Office with Vice President Lester Busick, Secretary of Defense Robert Goff, and Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General Richard Venti. “The United States does not want a war with Russia or anyone else.”

“Your military forces have destroyed dozens of aircraft, heavily damaged a communications vessel on the high seas, and killed seventeen men and women, sir, all in one night,” Russian president Valentin Sen’kov said. “If you don’t want war, President Thorn, you have a strange way of showing it.”

“I take it by your words, Mr. President, that you did not actually declare war on the United States of America?”

“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard, President Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “No one in my government has declared war, and certainly not with the United States. Yes, I consider the Taliban a threat to peace in Turkmenistan, but I have not declared war on them or anyone else!”

“Then Colonel General Kasimov’s declarations and warnings were not authorized or sanctioned by the Russian government?”

“I don’t even know a Colonel General Kasimov!” Sen’kov retorted. “Is this some kind of game, Mr. President?”

“We have e-mailed the Russian embassy in Washington with a digital recording and transcript of a conversation I had with Colonel General Kasimov, who said he was the Russian liaison to the Turkmen military general staff. He announced the imposition of martial law in Turkmenistan and said that, because of U.S. actions in Turkmenistan and by authority of treaties between Russia and Turkmenistan, a state of war existed between our countries.”

“I… this is outrageous! This is nonsense!” Sen’kov exploded. “I authorized nothing of the kind! It must have been approved by General Gryzlov, my chief of the general staff.”

“We are also monitoring a very large-scale buildup of tactical and strategic forces in Russia,” Thorn went on, “that all appear to be getting ready for air assaults in Turkmenistan.”

“I know that General Gryzlov issued a warning order directing mobilization and preparedness,” Sen’kov admitted. “He has that authority. He was very concerned about the shoot-down of the MiG-29 over Turkmenistan — fearing it might have been from a secret attack by the Taliban — and these recent attacks in the Caspian Sea and Krasnovodsk only reinforced his fears. However, I have not authorized any attacks against any forces anywhere.”

“So you issued no execution order for any attacks in Turkmenistan?”

“No, I did not,” Sen’kov said. “I understand that General Gryzlov delivered a draft execution order to my office. It is sitting here right in front of me on my desk, still unsigned.”

“So what does this mean?” Thorn asked. “Is General Gryzlov acting on your orders, or is he provoking a war on his own?”

“I don’t know if he has access to information I do not, or if he has misinterpreted a directive from my office,” Sen’kov said. “In any case we will investigate immediately. But I assure you most emphatically, Mr. President: Russia is not at war with the United States.”

“I believe you, Mr. President,” Thorn replied. “But the world will soon see what we see: Russia getting ready to attack someone. We must have some kind of assurance that war is not imminent. The American Congress will certainly want a full explanation, and our military forces will press to go to a heightened state of alert. If that happens, we may not be able to control the escalation.”

“Then I suggest a meeting, Mr. Thorn,” Sen’kov said. “An emergency summit, in Reykjavik, Iceland, tomorrow morning. We shall issue a joint statement telling the world we are not at war; we shall both pledge to restore peace and democracy to Turkmenistan and work together to solve racial, cultural, religious, and ethnic conflicts all over the world.”

“Agreed. I’ll be there,” Thorn replied.

“Very good, Mr. President. I look forward to seeing you in Iceland.”

Thorn set the phone down and turned to Vice President Lester Busick. “Summit meeting between Sen’kov and me, tomorrow morning, in Reykjavik.”

“Well, at least the bastard chose someplace more or less in between our two capitals,” Busick said as he picked up his phone to start making arrangements. “The asshole probably denies the whole thing.”

“I have a feeling he’s as much in the dark as we are, Les.”

“Real fucking great. That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“What’s the status of our folks in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, Robert?” Thorn asked.

“Everyone’s standing by, sir,” Secretary of State Robert Goff replied. “Secretary Hershel has been in contact with the Taliban leader, Jalaluddin Turabi, who told her he wants to see what the people of Turkmenistan say. Gurizev is dead; we feel it’s far too dangerous for any American to go to the capital while the Russians control the city. I believe her mission is done.”

“Same here,” Busick said. “Let’s get her the hell out of there.”

“All right,” Thorn said. “General Venti, have General McLanahan’s aircraft escort Deputy Secretary of State Hershel’s aircraft out of Uzbekistan and stay with it until it’s safely back on friendly soil. Then have the rest of McLanahan’s force evacuate to Diego Garcia. I want maximum protection for the entire contingent. He’s authorized to use every aircraft he’s got to see to it that Hershel and his ground forces are safely out of the region.”

“Should McLanahan’s teams stand by on Diego Garcia, in case they’re needed again over Turkmenistan?”

Thorn thought about it for a moment, then replied, “No, General. As soon as Deputy Secretary Hershel is back on U.S. territory, bring them home. Be sure to pass along my thanks for a job well done.”

“Yes, sir,” Venti said. He picked up a telephone and began issuing orders.

Secretary Goff was the only adviser not otherwise occupied. “So what do you think this General Gryzlov is going to do next?” he asked Thorn. “Is he a loose cannon, an opportunist, or just plain crazy?”

Thomas Thorn thought about the question for a moment. “I think he’s going to make his voice heard,” he said. “He obviously has something to say, and he has the power and authority to force others to listen. We are definitely going to hear from him again — soon.”

As soon as Valentin Sen’kov left his official residence at the Kremlin, his security and transportation network went into action. Three shell-game groups of three armored limousines departed the Kremlin, with Sen’kov’s group in the middle, taking a different route than in times past. Each limousine flew the crest of the president of Russia, so it was impossible to tell which actually carried him.

In general, government flights, especially ones taken by the president, originated from Zhukovsky Airport southeast of Moscow, which was both a military airfield and a government research facility. Two of the shell-game groups headed toward Zhukovsky, each taking a different route. This time, however, the third team broke off from the others and headed northwest, to Sheremetyevo-1 Airport. Normally used for regional and Commonwealth flights, Sheremetyevo-1 was once Moscow’s largest international airport — that honor now belonged to Sheremetyevo-2—so it could easily handle large international flights.

The president’s motorcade drove into the airport through a side entrance and was picked up by airport security police and MVA Interior Ministry and OMON special-operations troops. It continued on at high speed to a secure ramp area, where a Tupolev-204 medium-range VIP transport was waiting. Sen’kov and his staff members quickly boarded via the main port-side forward airstair. There was no sendoff, no ceremony, no pomp and circumstance. The president of the Russian Federation was greeted by the captain and the chief of the aircraft’s security staff, a female OMON officer, and shown quickly to his seat in the rear VIP cabin, along with several of his senior staff.

Once Sen’kov was seated in his plush high-backed seat and positioned for takeoff, he turned to his chief of staff. “General Gryzlov’s location?” he asked.

“As of ten minutes ago — in official quarters,” his aide replied, checking his notebook. “He made only four phone calls, all to staffers back at his office, routine calls. His computer and cellular phones have not been used. His staffers have made numerous calls, but all callers have been verified and their conversations monitored. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

If he was planning a coup, Sen’kov thought, he was doing it very, very quietly indeed. “Is he aware of this trip?”

“If he is, sir, he has not contacted anyone that might be considered unusual or suspect,” the aide said. “Minister of Defense Bukayev will contact General Gryzlov when he awakens in the morning and notify him that the president has departed for the summit meeting.”

“Everyone else in the cabinet sticking to their schedules?”

“Yes, sir.”

For the first time since he left the Kremlin, Valentin Sen’kov could relax. General Gryzlov was obviously too busy with his invasion plans to worry about planning a takeover of the government or of the president’s last-minute travel plans. Although it was probably not completely wise to leave Moscow with this showdown brewing between him and Gryzlov, Sen’kov was confident that a meeting with Thomas Thorn would give him the look of a peacemaker and enhance Gryzlov’s image as a dangerous and unpredictable berserker. If Thorn was smart and well briefed, he would treat Sen’kov as his equal; that would help keep the Duma — the Russian parliament — and the people on his side so he had a chance of weathering this crisis.

For the first time security forces showed the world that the president was on board the plane as vehicles with flashing lights escorted the Tu-204 to the runway for takeoff. Sen’kov felt vulnerable and nervous — he wished the escorts would go away so the VIP transport had a better chance of blending in with all the other airliners. But the Tu-204 was a big plane, there were only three others like it in existence, and they were the only ones with the word russia painted in big red Cyrillic letters on the side, along with the president’s crest on the tail. It made a big enough stir by itself, let alone surrounded by a dozen security vehicles. Before he knew it, though, the huge twin-fanjet transport was airborne, heading northwest on the great-circle route to Iceland.

Sen’kov was finally able to relax. He reclined his seat back, buzzed the galley, and ordered a glass of ice-cold vodka and some toast points and caviar, which were served him in just a few minutes. Sen’kov turned on his computer, checked his messages, and then called up the latest intelligence and cabinet staff briefings. Things actually seemed to be calming down. Even Gryzlov’s airpower mobilizations were slowing a bit. Everyone’s locations and activities appeared normal — no clandestine meetings, no evacuations, no runs on banks.

Gryzlov still had plenty of time to fuck things up, Sen’kov thought as he sipped his vodka, but right now the government seemed to be plodding along pretty much as usual. He could definitely feel the tension in the air, but perhaps the boiling point had not yet been reached. Iceland was a pretty good place to be right now.

Sen’kov loosened his tie, removed his shoes, turned on a Western satellite-news channel, and munched on caviar — farm-grown caviar, he hoped, not the crap they were still harvesting from the Caspian Sea. He checked the large computer flight-tracking screen on the bulkhead, which plotted out their position and showed their altitude, airspeed, world times, and estimated time en route. They were just over the Gulf of Finland, safely out of Russian airspace. He was tired, but he needed a little relief from the job before he thought about sleep. Sen’kov briefly considered inviting one of the female OMON security officers back to his private cabin for a little horseplay — she had definitely signaled some interest in some private pleasures, no doubt in exchange for some professional favors — but decided he needed the rest more than he needed—

At that moment the phone buzzed. Sen’kov looked at it strangely. His phone was set on “private” when he didn’t wish to be disturbed, and if one of his aides had something very urgent, he would simply walk in and give it to him. Sen’kov ignored the buzzing, knowing that one of his aides or someone in the communications cabin would pick it up — but no one did. Irritated, he picked it up. “Komoo,” he said curtly.

“Mr. President, you didn’t tell me you were departing the capital,” General Anatoliy Gryzlov said.

Sen’kov’s blood turned cold when he heard Gryzlov, especially using that ominous tone of voice. “What is it, General? Bukayev was going to notify you at dawn. I’m trying to get some rest.”

“Try that OMON captain from the Thirty-first Rifles. She told me she was looking for a promotion and a transfer to Kaliningrad,” Gryzlov said. “She’ll give you anything you wish in exchange—anything. Believe me, I know. It was my recommendation that got her promoted to captain and a billet in the presidential security detail.”

So Gryzlov did have extensive connections in OMON, Sen’kov thought — and he most certainly did in the MVD Interior Ministry as well. Oh, shit… “You called to tell me about one of your OMON sluts?”

“I called to tell you, Sen’kov, that you broke faith with me and with Russia by not signing that execution order, then blabbing about me to the Americans,” Gryzlov said. “I don’t appreciate being lied to and having my name smeared to a bunch of Americans.”

“Your name is dead, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov thundered. He immediately buzzed the outer working area for his aides, then started typing a message on his computer, informing the MVD and OMON security officials to arrest Gryzlov. “I won’t tolerate your insubordination any longer! You’ve threatened me for the last time. I hereby relieve you of duty, General. Have your deputy report to the Defense Ministry for instructions. You will be confined to quarters. If you submit your resignation and retirement request immediately, I won’t press for a court-martial.”

“How generous of you, Sen’kov,” Gryzlov said. “But that won’t be necessary. I will depart the general staff this morning — and I will confine myself to the Kremlin White House.”

“What are you talking about?” There was no reply to his buzzer, and the e-mail wasn’t being transmitted. He reached under his desk and hit the “panic button,” which was supposed to send every security officer on board rushing into the cabin — but no one showed. He picked up the phone to the cockpit. It rang, but no one answered.

“It is simple, Sen’kov: You’re out, and I’m in,” Gryzlov said. “Oh, and I would recommend that you do not open the door to your VIP cabin.”

“What did you do, Gryzlov?”

“Nothing too dramatic — just a simple slow failure of your plane’s pressurization system,” Gryzlov said. “Plus, I disabled the cabin altitude-warning lights and the oxygen-generating system. When the cockpit reached four to five thousand meters altitude, your flight crew should have experienced the first symptoms of hypoxia — oxygen starvation — declared an emergency, and donned their oxygen masks. The masks won’t work, but they won’t have realized that until too late. Everyone in the main cabin should have been unconscious from hypoxia by then, and a few minutes later the flight crew would have succumbed to oxygen starvation. Right about now your plane should be on autopilot, cruising over western Finland with everyone on board unconscious — except you. Remember, don’t open your cabin door — your cabin is sealed pretty well against pressurization loss.”

Sen’kov leaped to his feet and pounded on the cabin door, but no one answered. He checked the peephole — sure enough, the security guards were sound asleep. This can’t be happening! he screamed to himself. This was a nightmare!

He looked out one of the portholes on the starboard side of the Tu-204 and was surprised to see a Russian air force MiG-29 in close formation with him. He waved, and the pilot waved back. Relieved, Sen’kov went back to his desk, punched another satellite channel, and waited to be connected.

“I have requested that all communications to your flight go through the president’s office, Sen’kov,” he heard Gryzlov say. “I’m here in your office with the members of the general staff, the deputy speaker of the Duma, and the cabinet. We are all very concerned about your safety, but I’m afraid there’s not much anyone can do right now.”

“You bastard, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov screamed. “You’ll burn in hell for all eternity for this!”

“Not exactly, Sen’kov,” Gryzlov said. “What will happen is that you will die when your plane either runs out of fuel or turbulence trips off the autopilot and you crash somewhere between Sweden and the Arctic Ocean. Unfortunately, the air will eventually leak out of your cabin as well, and you’ll be unconscious, too, so you probably will not experience the thrill of hitting the tundra or the ocean at terminal velocity or feeling the wings rip off your plane—”

“You’re a sick, twisted bastard, Gryzlov. How dare you just snuff out the lives of all these innocent men and women on board?”

“You have one chance to save them, and I’ll tell you how you can do it, Mr. President,” Gryzlov went on. “You must hold your breath, run to the cockpit, take control of the plane, and then descend below three thousand meters so you can breathe. You would have to descend at, let’s see… seven thousand meters per minute to make it down in time. The way to do it: pull the power back to idle, lower the landing gear and flaps, lower the nose, and fly in a very steep banked turn. Then you can descend quickly without ripping the wings off. Remember, you’ll have about twenty seconds after you let your breath go to do it — that’s the average time of useful consciousness with your cabin altitude above eight thousand meters. For the sake of those fighter pilots who are trailing you, you must try it. If you crash, it will be a horrible and terribly tragic accident that will be witnessed by those brave fighter pilots that are feverishly trying to figure out some way to get you down safely. God, I hope they won’t be scarred for life. Good luck, Mr. President.”

“I suppose all of you were in on this from the beginning?” Sen’kov asked.

“Not right away, but by the time you told the Americans what my plan was, we all agreed that you could no longer lead this country forward,” Gryzlov said. “You have been tainted by corruption and have been forced to accede to threats from the United States to survive. We cannot sit by and watch you flush our future down the toilet. Everyone in this room is in agreement. Everyone else — the vice president, the prime minister, the speaker of the Duma, and a few members of the cabinet — well, they cast their vote with their last living breath. Just as you are about to do.

“Now, you had better get going, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “You’ll probably have to equalize pressure between the cabins to open your door. Just flip the red-guarded switch inside the panel on the port side of the door. According to our calculations, if you manage to get control of the plane, you will still have plenty of fuel to make it back to St. Petersburg, or the fighter pilots will lead you to an alternate base in Sweden or Finland with a very long runway. You can still be the hero here, Sen’kov. Oh, and you’d better dress warmly — it’s liable to be cold up front. Take several deep breaths before you open the cabin door. To disconnect the autopilot, simply turn the control wheel hard left or right — you’ll have to overpower the computer, but you can do it. Pull the throttles back all the way, start a steep turn — forty-five degrees of bank should do — find the gear handle and lower it. You can do it, Mr. President.”

“I’ll see you in hell, Gryzlov,” Sen’kov said. “To the rest of you — I hope you lie awake thinking about what you’ve done here tonight. The lives of every innocent man and woman on board this plane will be on your heads.” He slammed the phone down.

Sen’kov was shaking so hard he could hardly don his overcoat, hat, and gloves. As he dressed, he took several deep breaths to flush the carbon dioxide out of his lungs — after doing so he found he could hold his breath for about sixty seconds. He rehearsed the route he had to take several times in his head. After nearly passing out from hyperventilating, he found himself remarkably calm. This was possible, he thought. The smug bastard Gryzlov had given him everything he needed to know to do it.

The Russian president went to the door and tried it. Sure enough the higher pressure inside the VIP cabin was holding it closed. He located the pressure-relief switch in a panel behind the door, took several more deep breaths, held it, and flipped the switch. He heard a loud whisssh! and a thin fog immediately formed inside the VIP cabin. It was instantly thirty degrees colder. Oh, shit…

He flung open the door and started forward. The main cabin was like a freezer. Every man and woman inside had an oxygen mask on — and every one was soundly sleeping. How could anyone — even that sick, homicidal maniac Gryzlov — do such a thing to his own people?

It took him just ten seconds to reach the cockpit door — thankfully, it was not locked. The pilots, navigator, and flight engineer, all wearing quick-don oxygen masks, were unconscious. Sen’kov dragged the pilot out of his seat — and nearly jumped out of his skin when the pilot moaned; he’d forgotten that no one on board the plane was yet dead — sat down, and examined the controls and instruments. He recognized the artificial horizon and the altimeter — the metric one read eleven thousand six hundred meters — saw the red line on the airspeed indicator, and found the throttles and gear handle. He grasped the control wheel and tried to turn it, but the autopilot fought back. He turned harder, but it fought harder. He finally yanked it over with all his might. A red light marked master caution snapped on, and another red light marked autopilot disconnect came on. Forty seconds to go.

He pulled the power to idle, grabbed the gear handle and pulled it down. More red lights — he didn’t try to identify them. He grabbed the control wheel and pushed the nose over. The airspeed needle immediately crept toward the red line. What had Gryzlov said? Put the plane in a steep bank to keep the wings from ripping off? He turned the wheel left to the first large mark, thirty degrees, and the airspeed stopped increasing but the vertical speed increased. He put in more bank angle, to the next large mark, sixty degrees. The airspeed was actually slowing, and the descent rate was pegged at five thousand meters per minute. “Great! I can do this!”

Then he realized he hadn’t thought that last remark — he’d said it. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. The final clock was ticking now. He was surprised to find he could breathe normally — he thought he’d be gasping for air. Maybe he had more time than he thought.

Sen’kov increased the bank angle even more. Now the altimeter was really unwinding. The heading indicator was also spinning wildly, but he didn’t care. The airspeed needle was very much lower than the red line — just what he wanted. He pushed the nose even lower. My God, it was working! That rat bastard Gryzlov really underestimated him! He saw with glee that one of the fighter jets escorting him was visible out the copilot’s side window. Pretty damned fancy flying, he thought. He was in a very steep bank, but the fighter was right there with him as if they were welded together. The altimeter swung past eight thousand, then seven thousand, then six thousand meters, that fast — just a few more seconds and he would do it! Already he was feeling better — my God, he was going to make it!

There! Five thousand meters! He turned the control wheel to the right and was surprised to feel how easy it was to turn. The artificial horizon was spinning like a top that was about to fall off its pedestal. He could breathe! He’d done it! He’d saved everyone on board! Now he could get control of this thing, bring it home, and then exact his revenge on Gryzlov for trying to kill him. The copilot moaned loudly. Sen’kov prayed he would wake up. “Copilot! Help me!” Sen’kov screamed. “Wake up, damn you! Wake up!”

Four thousand meters… three thousand… Sen’kov pulled back on the control column. It came back easily enough — maybe too easily. The control column was loose and floppy in his hands. It was hard to stay upright in his seat. Although he felt as if he had things pretty well under control, the plane felt as if it was still spinning. The artificial horizon was flipping and flopping, blurring almost into a continual shade of gray — what was wrong with that thing now? Two thousand meters… Shit, how was he supposed to stop this thing from…?

“I see. Very well. Instruct them to report their position to the Swedish radar controller, and then they may return to base.” Gryzlov replaced the phone in its cradle, then turned to the men around him. “I regret to inform everyone that it appears that President Sen’kov’s plane has crashed. The MiG-29 pilots escorting his plane saw him take the controls, then put the plane into a steep spinning dive. The bank got steeper and steeper until the plane entered a vertical spin, from which it was unrecoverable. The pilots observed the president’s plane hit the ground through their night-vision goggles.”

General Gryzlov took a briefcase from an officer and nodded. The officer removed a key and gave it to the general. “Because of the unexplained disappearance of the vice president, prime minister, and speaker of parliament, the normal order of progression has been interrupted, and I find it necessary to impose martial law in the Russian Federation.

“The first order of business is control of the special-weapons-unlock keys. As you can see, I now have the master special-weapons-unlock code key; Minister of Defense Bukayev still has the secondary key. The nuclear weapons of the Russian Federation are secure.

“We shall inform the people of the Russian Federation and the world of this tragic accident, the heroic efforts of President Sen’kov to save the lives of the crew, and of the smooth, peaceful transition of power. A search will begin immediately for the missing members of the executive and legislative branches. Until then I will assume responsibility for the central government as well as for the defense of our homeland.”

Gryzlov stepped behind the president’s desk, leaned over it with his knuckles pressed to the smooth top, and added, “Our first order of business: launch an immediate strategic and tactical bomber attack on the city of Chärjew in the Republic of Turkmenistan. I don’t want one Taliban sympathizer or foreign interloper alive to threaten us again. We must recapture the oil and gas pipelines in that country and be sure they remain secure. Have ground-invasion forces standing by.”

“We’re outta here,” Hal Briggs said. He had jet-jumped to where Chris Wohl was standing guard with his electromagnetic rail gun. “The folks in Uzbekistan are airborne. We’ll rendezvous just before the Afghanistan-Turkmenistan border.”

“Outstanding, sir,” Chris Wohl responded. “I’d rather not stick around.”

“Mount up, then,” he said. He then turned to Jalaluddin Turabi, who was speaking with a large group of Central Asian soldiers. “We need to be airborne in just a few minutes, Turabi,” he said. The computers in his battle armor translated his words into Russian for him. “What’s the verdict?”

“The Turkmen representatives have decided to allow me to lead their armies,” Turabi replied proudly. “We are getting ready even now to set up barricades and defenses around Chärjew.”

“Well, you deserve it,” Briggs said. “I never thought I’d say it, but you’re a good man, Turabi. You’re a good leader. The Turkmen made a wise choice.”

“Thank you for saving my life and helping my fighters, Taurus,” Turabi said, using Briggs’s call sign while in his Tin Man battle armor. “I will be forever grateful.”

“I’ll be grateful to you if you’d lead this country out of the dark ages of fundamentalism and help them rebuild themselves,” Briggs said. Turabi looked quizzically at him. “I wouldn’t want this country to turn out like Afghanistan did under the Taliban.”

“I don’t know how it will turn out,” Turabi said. “If the leaders of this country turn to the Taliban for help in rebuilding this country, I would be happy for that.”

“If that happens, I hope we’ll never meet again, Turabi, especially if you intend to keep on raiding United Nations convoys,” Briggs warned him. “We might find ourselves on opposing sides — again.”

“I will remember that, Taurus. But I am Taliban. I will follow my God and the leaders of my clan and try to be a loyal servant — to them, to my family, and my conscience.”

“My advice to you: Serve yourself and your family first, and then listen to your chiefs. Their goals may not be the same as yours,” Briggs said. “I wish you luck, Turabi — because if you’re ever in my sights, I won’t hesitate to blow your shit away. Count on that.” He turned and walked toward the waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher, loaded and with its engines spooling up, getting ready for takeoff.

Just then he heard, “Bandits, bandits, bandits. All Battle Force units, this is Bobcat One-three. Numerous bandits inbound, bearing two-niner-zero, one hundred ten miles bull’s-eye, very low altitude, speed six hundred knots.”

Briggs didn’t hesitate. “Tin Men, dismount,” he ordered. “Take defensive positions now! Everyone else, stay on board.” He turned to Turabi and said, “You’d better get your men into shelters, Turabi. The Russians could strike at any moment.”

Turabi ran off, waving for the others — Turkmen and Afghans alike — to head for underground shelters.

“We’ve been ordered to depart!” the pilot of the MV-32 radioed back. “They’re still at least ten minutes away — we’ve got time to make it out.”

“I said Tin Men, dismount!” Briggs repeated. “Bring your gear! Spread out to the northwest. Dasher, as soon as my men are out, you split. Get across the Uzbek border to Samarkand.”

“Damn it, Briggs, we can all make it out!” the pilot argued. “Why in hell are you staying?”

“I said get going!” Briggs shouted. As soon as the eighth and last Tin Man was out of the tilt-jet aircraft, he jet-jumped to the northwest. The other Tin Men spread out with him, deploying about two miles apart so they could concentrate their firepower, cover as much territory as possible, and avoid being caught in one single-weapon attack. Each Tin Man commando carried an electromagnetic rail gun with plenty of tungsten-steel projectiles, plus a support bag with spare battery packs and spare parts for their battle armor and powered exoskeleton.

The MV-32 Pave Dasher lifted off in a blinding cloud of dust and sand and had just started rotating its engine nacelles from vertical lift to airplane mode… when the first Russian cruise missile hit. Several fuel-air explosions bracketed the MV-32 perfectly, creating a gigantic viselike crushing machine that shattered the tilt-jet aircraft and its passengers and crew into several thousand pieces and slammed it all into the sand.