Marine: A Guided Tour of a Marine Expeditionary Unit

Back in the 1960s, the Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, knew that someday the oil would run out. (He was wiser than most rulers in the region.) "Petroleum," he once said, "is a noble material, too valuable to burn." So he envisioned a national electrical grid powered by a series of clean, modern nuclear plants. The French were doing the same thing, and he admired everything French. He also knew that possession of nuclear technology brought prestige that would enhance Iran's position as a regional power. It had worked for Israel. He also admired the Israelis. The sleepy Persian Gulf port of Bushehr made an ideal site for the first plant. The Bushehr peninsula was a solid, isolated block of rock, standing out along the generally flat, barren, central Persian Gulf coast. Nature had intended it to be an island, but ages ago silt had filled in the narrow channel, and a road built on an elevated embankment led to the town. Power lines from the nuclear plant would run alongside the road and up through the mountains, supplying the great inland city of Shiraz with cheap, abundant electricity.

In 1979 the Islamic Revolution came; the Ayatollahs threw the Shah out of the country, and the foreign engineers and construction crews departed soon afterward. The Ayatollahs may have been fanatical, but they weren't crazy. They remembered what had happened to Saddam's ambitious Osirak nuclear power plant, smashed into rubble by a few Israeli bombs. The Shah's nuclear dreams were abandoned, and intelligence officers in the West nicknamed the site "Dead Dog." With the passing years, war came and went. And oil continued to flow. But the Shah was right; it would not flow forever. A new generation of Iranian technocrats rose into positions of power, and they rediscovered the Shah's vision. Russia offered nuclear reactors on advantageous barter-trade terms. Nuclear technology brought prestige, enhancing Iran's position as a regional power. It had worked for Israel.

Iranian Army Officer Training School, March 1991

The young officers in the cadet program were a privileged elite; they were permitted to watch the Gulf War and its aftermath on CNN. Those who understood a little English translated for the rest who spoke Farsi, but the images spoke for themselves. It was a gut-wrenching experience to watch the destruction in four days of the hated Iraqi army which had defied the mobilized might of the Islamic Republic for eight grinding, bloody years of attrition warfare. Every young man in the room had lost friends or relatives in battle against Saddam's Revolutionary Guards' armored divisions…and now Saddam's armor evaporated like snowflakes in the hot desert sun.

It was a bitter joy they found in the humiliation of their enemy. For the victory which should have been their victory was being won by an even more hated enemy, the Great Satan, America. The junior officers were the best and the brightest of their generation. But it didn't take much to see the writing on the wall. If the Americans can do this to Saddam, what could they do to us? They listened attentively to lectures by officials from the Ministry of Islamic Guidance. The Great Satan's victory, it was said, had been bought with the oil revenues of the corrupt Gulf sheikdoms. The godless Russians had given the Americans the secrets of Saddam's defenses. Iraq had only collapsed because the martyrdom of a million faithful Iranians had fatally weakened his regime. After evening prayers, the junior officers gathered in the dorm, arguing late into the night. The mandatory time for lights out came and went, but no one could sleep. They resolved that whatever it took, they would understand the causes of Iraq's defeat, and they would ensure that their nation never suffered the same fate.

Sub-Lieutenant Gholam Hassanzadeh did not have to wait long. Before the Islamic Revolution, he had studied physics at Teheran University for a year. He spoke good English and fluent Arabic. His first assignment was debriefing a plane-load of Iraqi nuclear technicians who had escaped to Iran after their prototype isotope-separation plant was reduced to rubble by U.S. BGM-109 Tomahawk missiles. They would be working for the Islamic Republic of Iran now. The technicians, all educated men and good Muslims, had little love for Saddam. They had escaped only minutes ahead of the Mukhabarat secret police that Saddam had dispatched to execute them, to keep them from telling the Americans what they knew.

Gholam took an instant liking to these men, uprooted from homes and families by the winds of war. Their accommodations were harsh, little better than prison barracks, but Gholam had grown up in a culture where hospitality toward the stranger was not only a religious obligation, but a fine art. He did what little he could to make their exile more comfortable. They reciprocated with a torrent of information. His reports were read with growing interest by top Government officials. One caught their special interest. In it he outlined a plan for an Iranian nuclear deterrent force. Gholam swiftly made captain, and then major. In a few years, he was given the leadership of the team that managed secret nuclear labs that were building a true Islamic bomb.

International Hotel, Bushehr, Iran, August 8th, 2006

The humidity was near 100 percent, and the temperature was about the same as body heat. He half expected it would cool off after sunset, but then remembered he was in the Persian Gulf and that it was August. An air-conditioner sat mockingly in the hotel room's window, but salt fog had corroded it into junk years ago. He hated this place almost as much as the local people hated him — he was a symbol of the West, the Infidel, the Enemy. Hans Ulrich, Senior Technical Inspector for the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA), dreamed about the alpine glaciers of his native Switzerland as he sat unhappily in the stifling room that passed for luxury accommodations in Bushehr.

Tomorrow he would complete the solemn, high-tech ritual of placing inspection seals on meticulously weighed and measured fuel rods of the Bushehr #1 Reactor Unit, a Russian VVER-440. He hated working around Russian reactors. He knew, of course, that this one was a pressurized water type, a safer, more modern design than that horrible graphite pile of crap at Chernobyl. Still, it was a sloppy piece of work by his standards, and that offended every neuron in the finely machined clockwork of his Swiss brain. In a few hours of work, he would accumulate almost an entire year's permissible radiation exposure. Then he would face the struggle of getting back to IAEA headquarters in Vienna with a quarter ton of inspection equipment from a country where every official, cab driver, and schoolchild regarded him as an enemy spy. As Ulrich continued to sweat, he went back to writing out his report in longhand. He would have used his laptop data slate, but it had gone into thermal shutdown an hour before, and was useless to him now. He hated trusting his thoughts to a sweat-stained notepad, but it would have to do for now.

As he sweated, he took a swallow of warm orange juice and sat back. He was thinking about the sealed cases of uranium cores that he had seen in the plant's secure storage area. He had been here just six months earlier to certify the refueling of the #2 reactor, and the spent fuel rods from that operation were still in their containers. When he asked why they had not been shipped out for reprocessing, he was told that the tons of rod assemblies from the first refueling had been held over to save on costs. In that way only one shipload would be required. While technically not a violation of the rules, it was not good management. As much as 75 kg/165 lb of weapons-grade plutonium might be mixed in with the witches' brew of radioactive isotopes in those cases. Until they were safely at a certified reprocessing facility, raw material for at least a dozen nuclear weapons lay in Iranian hands.

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72) in the Gulf of Oman, August 14th, 2006

At least once a week, an elderly F-14 equipped with a TARPS reconnaissance pod made a low-level run from the carrier around the Persian Gulf's north coast, keeping carefully outside Iranian air space. If anything nasty was happening onshore, the NRO's imaging and radar satellites would pick it up almost immediately. Nevertheless, it was good training for the naval aviators and the ES-3A Shadow crews farther out in the Gulf, who expectantly monitored the electromagnetic spectrum, hoping the Iranian radars would light off some new frequency or pulse modulation. Thanks to some trick of the Gulf's freakish aerial refraction, this week's imagery was particularly good.

As he studied the fine detail in high magnification on the workstation, Lieutenant JG Jeff Harris, a photographic intelligence analyst assigned to the carrier's air wing, saw something odd about a new pair of oil platforms under construction off Bushehr. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he opened a new window on the screen and called up precise 3-D renderings of typical Persian Gulf drilling and production platforms and then rotated the images for side-by-side comparison. Something was definitely different. The steel lattice at the center of each platform was much too light to support the massive structure of a drill rig. Staring for a few moments, he reached around to a small classified safe, dialed the combination, extracted a CD-ROM, and loaded it into the workstation's drive. As the program displayed various pieces of equipment, it became clear there was nothing in the wildcatter's world that could be mounted there. But the grid pattern would fit the dimensions of a vertical-launch canister cluster for a Russian SA-N-9 surface-to-air missile (SAM) system. Those round fittings at each corner of the new platforms made no sense as mountings for any kind of drilling equipment. But they were exactly the right size and shape as mounts for CADS-1 gun/SAM mounts. And what looked like racks for drill pipe might be mounts for Chinese CS- 802 surface-to-surface missiles (SSM). Rubbing his eyes, he rose to pour another cup of coffee, then picked up a phone to call his department head. While he waited for the intelligence chief to arrive, he suddenly realized that these platforms had been built to protect something. He pulled more CD-ROMs from the security safe, and began to think.

Defense Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Bolling AFB, near Washington, D.C., August 22nd, 2006

In all the vast bureaucratic labyrinth of the American intelligence community, you probably would not have found a bigger collection of prima donnas than the Counterproliferation Coordinating Committee. The Committee, of course, did not officially exist. Its funding was buried in an obscure Interior Department line item that covered long-forgotten uranium mining subsidies to a holding company in Utah. Attendees for the every-Tuesday-morning meetings were drawn from the CIA, various imagery agencies, all four military services, the Department of Energy labs, a sprinkling of academic physicists and engineers, an FBI deputy director, and whatever senior analyst the State Department could spare that week. All of them had the right "tickets" (Special-Access security clearances). The older guys tended to be "Kremlinologists," long-time Russian specialists who had acquired profound cynicism and paranoia during long, bitter years of being outwitted by the KGB and its successors. The younger guys tended to be East Asia specialists, who built entire careers on the interpretation of enigmatic scraps of data from the bizarre information vacuum of North Korea. The absence of Middle East specialists might have seemed startling, unless you understood the politics of the intelligence community. In the aftermath of 1991 Gulf War, it was discovered that Iraq had operated several vast, parallel nuclear weapons programs right under the high-tech nose of countless billions of dollars worth of U.S. spy satellites. This was one of the great intelligence failures of the century; it sent a clear message to a new generation of intelligence officers. Stay away from anything connected with nuclear proliferation in the Middle East; it's not career-enhancing. Anyhow, it's the Israelis' responsibility. They can collect HUMINT (Human Intelligence) over there; we can't. Besides, they don't like anyone else messing around on their turf.

This Tuesday morning, the agenda began with a presentation by Dr. Rob Kennelly, a young nuclear engineer from the Department of Energy's Oak Ridge National Laboratory. He was describing new developments in laser-based gaseous isotope separation to extract plutonium from spent reactor fuel. Conventional extraction of weapons-grade fissionable material required construction of vast industrial complexes that were impossible to hide. But this laser plasma technique could be scaled down to machine-shop dimensions; a complete facility might be concealed on the grounds of a nuclear power plant. The only "signature" would be diversion of megawatts of power to drive banks of high-energy lasers. At the completion of the presentation, the committee chairman politely thanked the engineer, dismissing him with a nod toward the door. He wasn't cleared for the afternoon's agenda. But he wasn't ignored. During the lunch break, the lieutenant colonel who represented the Marine Corps took the young man aside and bombarded him with questions.

Russian Embassy, Teheran, Iran, August 25th, 2006

Yuri Andreevich Rogov was carried on the official Embassy roster as Senior Science and Technology Attache, but of course he reported directly to the station chief of the SVR, the successor of the KGB. Like its Soviet predecessor, the SVR selected its officers carefully and trained them rigorously. Fluent in Turkish, Farsi, and Arabic, Rogov operated with smooth confidence and impeccable courtesy in an often suspicious, hostile, and unpredictable country. He had stood and gazed in wonder at the ruins of Persepolis, and marveled that these people had built a cultured and efficient world empire back when his own distant Slavic ancestors lived in reed huts and slogged through the Pripyat marshes as hunters and gatherers.

Another characteristic the Russian Republic shared with its Communist predecessor was that it demanded long hours and hard work from its Foreign Service officers. One of Rogov's many duties was maintaining contact with the hundred or so technicians down at Bushehr. Officially, they were independent contract hires, working directly for Iran's Energy Ministry. Some of them had Ukrainian or Kazakhstan passports, but the project was based on an agreement between Russia and Iran, and the Iranians expected the Russian Embassy to keep the men happy, healthy, and out of trouble. No women were permitted, an irrational and unfortunate local custom, Rogov thought.

Several times a year, the various team leaders flew up to Teheran for an extended debriefing with Rogov. This was also an opportunity to update and check the contingency plans for an emergency evacuation of the crew in the event of a military or political crisis. Rogov's contacts in Bahrain and Dubai maintained a fleet of small speedboats, normally employed in the lucrative trans-Gulf smuggling trade, but instantly on call if it became necessary to clear out. Lev Davidovich Telfian was an ethnic Armenian, but his people had lived in Novorossiysk for generations, and he was a Russian citizen. His job at the plant was Training Manager, which gave him unusual freedom to move about, and a wide range of close personal contacts with Iranians on the site. He was one of Rogov's best informants. Unfortunately, this trip Telfian had had nothing new to report regarding the SVR's highest collection priority, the Chinese and North Koreans who occupied a separate, heavily guarded compound on the military base adjacent to the plant. As Rogov sipped his tea and re-read the report, he knew that there was something here. Or perhaps, the absence of something? He decided to send an Eyes Only message to SVR headquarters, and let them try to sort it out.

Iranian Ministry of Machinery Automobile Plant #3, near Bandar al Abbas, September 5th, 2006

Wendy Kwan sat uncomfortably in the director's lobby of Iran's newest automobile plant, carefully sipping a cup of tea. One of CNN's top foreign correspondents, she was here to interview the Iranian Minister of Machinery, as well as the factory manager. The American trade embargo, dating back to the 1990s Clinton Administration, had been tough on Iranians, but their response had surprised Western observers. Rather than knuckling under, they had launched a modest industrialization program, which had grown dramatically in the last few years. Plant #3 was the prototype, based on the latest Japanese flexible manufacturing techniques. It was configured to produce everything from new automobiles to tractors and other heavy equipment. It could also produce combat vehicles. Though her current beat was financial news, Wendy had started as a Far East correspondent fifteen years before, and she knew more than she wanted to know about military hardware. The interview went almost too well. Both men and their assistants (bodyguards?) were pleasant. This put her ill at ease. She was not on some Wall Street trading floor. Here, she could disappear at the whim of one of these men. Today, however, no problems developed. Following the interview, they escorted her and the camera crew on a factory tour.

It was impressive. She was surprised by the sophistication of the technology. The Iranians had made deals with companies in Russia and the former Soviet Republics for start-up capital in trade for a guaranteed flow of equipment at favorable prices. All around, brand-new robots and computer workstations were being installed. Every piece of equipment, she was told, was tied into a central computer, which held a complete design database for every product built on the line. As they passed the Engineering Department, she noted that the doors all had cipher locks, and that a plainclothes guard seemed to be checking workers' ID badges before they went in. Rather odd for an automobile plant, she thought. Then, as she was finishing up her close-out shot for the story, she saw on the edge of her vision someone who made her blood run cold. Trying not to look again, she calmly told the crew to pack up and head back to the airport. Only after they had returned to Bahrain that evening did she even allow herself to think about the man she had seen.

Wendy had first seen him ten years earlier. In those days, Professor Kim Ha Soon had been a top physicist in North Korea's now-dead nuclear weapons program. And he had led the delegation that negotiated away that program for energy and food supplies at the end of the Cold War. Wendy had covered those talks with CNN's field team. She never forgot the war scare that swept the Korean Peninsula back in 1994 and 1995. She had seen him then, and remembered rumors around the press pool. Not only was Kim the brains behind their uranium enrichment program, he had also devised the deception and cover plan that had hid the Korean effort for years. Now he was at an Iranian automobile plant, coming out of a security zone, talking with the plant director. She decided to make a quick detour through Washington, D.C., on the way home, and to take the master tape with her. Her old Georgetown University roommate was now an Army major working for the Defense Nuclear Agency at Fort Belvoir. Wendy thought she might be able to feed this to someone who could make use of it.

Iranian Ministry of Machinery Headquarters, Teheran, Iran, September 15th, 2006

The Iranian Minister of Machinery sat in a high-backed chair and looked over a thick file folder of material about the "Special Machinery" project at Bushehr. So far security had held, and with only three months to completion, there appeared to be nothing to be concerned about. The CNN interview had shown only what he had wanted them to show, and his own performance had been both soothing and convincing. The image was exactly what he wanted — that his ministry was merely overseeing a plucky country's industrial program, trying to overcome the shackles of an unjust embargo. His own lack of military service (he had trained as a mechanical engineer in France) meant that he probably was not known beyond a thin file at CIA headquarters. He had never been politically active, and was considered rather boring in most trade circles. He was, he thought with a thin smile, the perfect cover for a nuclear weapons program.

The smallest details of security had been considered. For example, graduate students at several Iranian universities published scientific papers on nuclear physics under the names of key scientists in the program, so that their absence would not be noticed by Western scientists. Best of all, it was a small program, with just the two facilities at Bushehr and Bandar al Abbas on the coast 320 miles/512 kilometers to the southwest. Thanks to the new laser-plasma isotope separation process and a secure central computer database, less than 250 personnel were involved.

A folder on the desk held the time line for the final three months of the first production run — a dozen boosted fission weapons with a nominal fifty-kiloton yield, based on an implosion design using plutonium. Half would arm a squadron of intermediate-range ballistic missiles (IRBMs), and the other six would become warheads of Russian-supplied AS-19 cruise missiles, for air-launch by Iran's SU-24 Fencer fighter bombers. These weapons would allow Iran to deter any aggression from the Americans or their Arab lackeys in the Gulf while even more powerful weapons and delivery systems were developed by his ministry.

It had taken a long time. Almost fifteen years earlier, he had read the papers written by his good friend, now-Colonel Gholam Hassanzadeh. Armed with these, he had gone to an old mentor in the Defense Ministry with the proposal for a careful and discreet program to build nuclear warheads and delivery systems. It would take time and patience, but the plan would yield results. The Defense Ministry had entrusted him with industrial responsibility for the project, while Colonel Hassanzadeh handled security. That made them two of the most important men in Iran.

Now the project was about to bear fruit. He looked at the time lines with satisfaction, and mentally reviewed the schedules. Final assembly of the weapons was timed for the American holidays at the end of the year, when their attention would be focused on that bizarre form of football they worshipped more than their God. Over the Thanksgiving weekend, the components for the warheads would be moved from the fabrication shop at Automobile Plant #3 to the nuclear plant at Bushehr, where the plutonium was being extracted from the last batch of fuel rods from the twin reactors.

Starting on Christmas Eve, twelve warheads would be assembled in a special facility at Bushehr, over a period of seven days. Finally, the warheads would be brought back to the auto plant for mating to the IRBMs and AS-19s, with delivery to operational units the following day. Once the weapons were deployed, there would be a declaration that Iran was a nuclear power and would no longer submit to unfair treaties or agreements imposed by Western powers. From that moment, they would be the regional superpower. The Iranian people would again be able to seek their destiny, without interference by outsiders.

Russian Embassy, Teheran, Iran, September 26th, 2006

To Yuri Andreevich Rogov, sitting in his embassy office, the CD-ROM in his hand felt like a disk of deadly plutonium. It might as well have been, for it held the very documents and diagrams that the Machinery Minister had been reviewing the night before. The disk had been smuggled out of Bushehr in an audio CD case, labeled as Armenian folk music. Someone had copied an actual audio CD, adding written data to the outside tracks. The disk had been passed to Telfian covertly by one of the Pakistani technicians in the secure area, while they had been in the cafeteria together. Telfian had had no idea what it was at first — not until he inserted the disk into his multimedia laptop computer to listen to it, and accidentally found the data files. Telfian had then used a special code phrase whereby the embassy could request his recall on a phony family emergency. He gave the disk to Rogov, then returned the next day to Bushehr to maintain the cover for the brave Pakistani. Now Rogov had the problem of getting the disk back to SVR headquarters in Moscow. There was really only one way. He made reservations on an Aeroflot flight home in two days, so as not to appear too eager.

Defense Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Bolling AFB, near Washington, D.C., September 30th, 2006

The chairman of the Counterproliferation Coordinating Committee brought the meeting to order, and quickly summarized the data the Russians had forwarded that morning. Combined with other bits and pieces that had come in, they now had a full picture of how Iran planned to join the nuclear "club." The documents detailed an exquisite deception and security plan. The Iranians had purchased daily 1-meter-resolution commercial satellite imagery covering every base in the Western world that supported special operations forces. The list read like a mailing roster for a snake-eaters convention. Fort Bragg, North Carolina; Hurlbert Field, Florida; the SEALs training base at Coronado, California. Even the garrison and training facilities for the British SAS and German GSG-9. They had arranged for Iranian nationals to emigrate to each nation and set up businesses, usually things like dry cleaners and pizza-takeout shops, just outside the bases themselves. The Iranian agents reported home though a complex E-mail path over the Internet using encrypted messages. It was an almost perfect system, and it would be noticed immediately if one of the agents were arrested. The result was that special operations units which could neutralize the Iranian weapons program were covered with an Iranian surveillance blanket, making surprise impossible.

What made the situation worse for the intelligence types was that they had done their job. Thanks to their efforts to bring together the intelligence community and build relationships with past enemies, they had achieved an intelligence coup. Yet because of the Iranians' patience and care, it seemed as if nothing could be done. But unless they did something radical soon, the balance of power in the Middle East was about to take a dangerous tilt. The Marine lieutenant colonel broke the gloom with a comment about the Iranian surveillance list. Nowhere on it was even one U.S. Marine Corps base.

Fleet Marine Force Atlantic Headquarters, Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia, October 5th, 2006

Dr. Kennelly and Lieutenant Harris were both wondering what they were doing in the secure conference room of the Fleet Marine Force Atlantic (FMFLANT) headquarters this fine day. The heat and humidity of summer had finally broken, and you could almost feel fall in the air. In the room with them were a number of Navy, Air Force, and Marine officers, none over the rank of colonel or captain. Precisely at 0800, the brigadier who served as deputy commander FMFLANT rose and went to the podium. He pushed a button to display a briefing slide onto the large-screen projector to the side of him.

"Ladies and gentleman, we have here an opportunity to excel…."

Everyone in the room tensed up, knowing exactly what that kind of invitation meant. As he outlined the situation at Bushehr and Bandar al Abbas, you could feel the anxiety in the room rise. Dr. Kennelly wondered if this was how it felt back in 1949 when the first Soviet A-bomb test was announced. If the data was correct, a new nuclear power would be born in just three months. The fact that he had contributed to the discovery just made him sicker. What the general had to say next stunned them even more:

"Your job is to stop this program, and bring home irrefutable evidence of what the Iranians have been up to."

He flipped through his charts, and the officers made furious notes on the hard-copy charts that had been supplied to them. A Marine colonel spoke next.

"Sir, am I to understand that the 22nd MEU (SOC) is the only element of the force that will actually be in the Gulf itself?"

The reply came quickly. "Yes, Colonel, you'll relieve the 31st as scheduled, with the extra training and support that we have described here previously. Other than that, we want nothing of this operation to ever touch ground in the region. We're trying to provide complete deniability for the Saudis and our other friends. The President, the Congressional leadership, and the Joint Chiefs are all behind this one, and they want it to go off smoothly. Any questions?"

"How about the name of the operation sir?"

The General replied with a smile, "Back in the 90s, the old-time intelligence analysts called this plant 'the Dead Dog.' When we get done with it, it's going to be a Chilly Dog!"

There was a long pause, after which the colonel replied, "Semper Fi, sir!"

Aboard USS Bataan (LHD-5), off the North Carolina Coast, November 1st, 2006

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, this is our final confirmation brief before we do this run-through for the last time. Are we clear on all the important points?" Colonel Mike Newman was going over the last of his briefing slides.

The young captain commanding Charlie Company replied, "Yes, sir. The last time showed that we're good on time and tasks, but we need to work on order and flow?"

"That's right, Jimmy. It's not so much that you're doing anything wrong; it's just that I want to see you guys flowing like black ink through the compound mock-ups. There's nothing we can do about being noticed eventually. I just want to delay the inevitable as long as possible, so the diversion force can really get the attention of that battalion on the north side of the access road." He stopped, and then his face wrinkled into a thinly veiled grin. "I want them giving their full attention to defending their own barracks," he continued, "and not bothering with a few guys in black jumpsuits." He finished with: "Let's do it right this last time, and put it into the can, folks!"

The last run-through was nearly perfect, good enough to satisfy Colonel Newman and the SOTG observers. With this part of the preparation completed, and the procedures for the disposal of the defensive oil platforms dealt with, they would be ready to deploy in early December.

Warhead Assembly Room, Bushehr, Iran, December 4th, 2006

The Machinery Minister looked around with satisfaction at the twelve warhead assembly bays that were being finished. The movement of parts from the automobile factory had gone without incident, and the last phase of the plutonium extraction process had begun on time. In three weeks, a dozen nuclear weapons would take shape in this room, and there was nothing that the infidels or anyone else could do about it. That morning, he had received an intelligence briefing from his assistant at the ministry. The young man had a gift for this work, and amazingly, did absolutely nothing that was illegal in any country. The 1-meter-satellite imagery was acquired from a half-dozen different providers from France to the People's Republic of China. Data on movements by military units was also available over the Internet; it was as good as what most intelligence analysts saw in their morning briefings.

There was absolutely no indication of anything unusual at the bases where enemy special forces were plying their trade. In fact, there was a steady decline of military activity by the U.S. and her allies around the world. Even the U.S. Air Force, with its boast of "global reach," had been cutting back. The only matter of note that would be happening in the next month was a handover between two token Marine units in the Gulf. Nothing to worry about: only a single battalion aboard three ships with a couple of escorts. The carrier battle group based around the USS Constellation (CV-64) would be operating out in the Arabian Sea, and would not enter the Persian Gulf on this cruise. It was going to work.

Onslow Beach, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, December 7th, 2006

It was deployment day, and Captain Bill Hansen had the double problem of saying good-bye to his own wife and baby daughter, and getting his company of fifteen amphibious tractors aboard the USS Trenton (LPD-14). He would have the honor of taking the first unit of AAAVs out on cruise. He knew the real reason for this honor. Unlike others who had taken new systems to sea for the first time, he knew he would be taking this one into battle in just a few weeks. Luckily, the new vehicle had proven pretty reliable in field trials, and he had four contractor technicians to keep them in good shape.

His concentration was broken suddenly by the buzz of twin turboprops, and he looked up just in time to see Lieutenant Colonel Colleen Taskins banking her MV-22B Osprey to the north, followed by three other Ospreys from HMM-263. She had a fifteen-minute flight ahead, and then a landing aboard Bataan. He smiled, because Taskins faced the same problem he did. Though the Osprey had been in service for a few years, this would probably be its first combat trial. Lieutenant Colonel Taskins had been chosen as the first woman to command a Marine combat helicopter unit; now she would likely be the first female to command a Marine unit in actual combat. Not that this was a problem: Inside the pixie-faced lady who could turn the head of every male Marine in the MEU (SOC) was the heart of a warrior. He also knew that if something went wrong at Bushehr, she would be the first one in the air to come pick them up. Shaking the thought off, he climbed into his AAAV, and ordered the driver to head into the surf.

Reactor Control Room, Bushehr, Iran, December 15th, 2006

Lev Davidovich Telfian was nervous. A few days earlier he had been visited by Rogov, from the embassy in Tehran. The visit, sponsored by the Iranians, was one of many to industrial plants employing contract Russian personnel. He and Rogov had gone walking along the waterfront, beyond the ears of Iranian security. Rogov had quietly advised him to be ready for "something," possibly even "anything." Then he'd headed back to Teheran. Since that time Telfian had taken to carrying his personal effects with him. His computer, passport, and hard currency were carefully stashed in his briefcase, along with a clean pair of socks, underwear, and a toothbrush. He explained this to the security guards as an accommodation to the plant managers who were asking him to work extra shifts, which in fact they were.

Now he was doing his turn in the rotation as the midnight-to eight supervisor. He would continue on this schedule until New Year's Eve. After that, the Iranians had offered all the foreign workers a paid three-month vacation. He was ready for it. Even though he had grown up in the former Soviet Union, where you learned to suppress all outward signs of fear, suspicion, or thought, the stress of staying calm every day was immense. Nevertheless, he noted with curiosity that after running at top capacity for six months, the twin reactors were now at only 66 %. He just knew it had to do with the CD-ROM the Pakistani had given him. Something bad was happening, and it was about to get much worse. He wondered if he would survive.

Oval Office, the White House, Washington, D.C., December 17th, 2006

The National Christmas Tree lighting had gone well earlier that evening, and the press was already speculating about the forthcoming State of the Union message. Expected to be another one-term President, the Chief Executive had stunned the world with a last-minute victory over his rival, a senator from Washington State with a penchant for bribery and adultery that offended the electorate's infatuation with morality. Now, as the President looked out over the balcony towards the park, he wondered if winning was going to be worth it. Like so many other men who had sat in this office, he had entrusted foreign policy to others while he dealt with the challenge of the budgetary shambles left by an angry Congress.

The result was that he was betting the future on a military adventure that his advisors said was foolhardy. He had to make good his own failure to pay attention to the troubles of the world; this desperate venture was the best, last chance. Making a pre-New Year's resolution, he promised that if Chilly Dog came off, he would gut the National Security Council and State Department and start fresh. He sipped the bourbon in his glass slowly, exhaled, and looked out over the city once again, wondering if God listened to political deathbed wishes and confessions.

Hangar Deck, USS Bataan (LHD-5), about 40 nm./73 km. Southwest of Bushehr, 0000 Hours, December 28th, 2006

It was game time for Operation Chilly Dog, and Colonel Mike Newman had never felt more alive. All through his career, he had wanted to lead Marines on an important combat mission, and now this skinny kid from Wisconsin was about to do just that. It was almost enough to keep him from losing his mid-rats right here in Bataan's hangar bay. The worst part of the whole thing was that he would not get more than a few yards/meters from this very point. Given the complexity of Chilly Dog, he would fight this battle from a console in the Landing Force Operations Center (LFOC) on the ship's 02 Level. For the first time in his career, he would not lead from the front, and he felt guilty. It made no sense, of course, because unlike John Howard at Pegasus Bridge in 1944 and Dan Shomron at Entebbe in 1976, the only way that this mission could be coordinated in space and time was with the electronic tools of cyberspace.

Around the hangar bay, over five-hundred Marines were checking weapons and equipment. The sickly yellow-orange sodium lights cast a surrealistic glow over the scene. As he walked from group to group, encouraging them to muted shouts of "Oooh-rah!" and "Semper Fi, sir!" he watched Marines apply desert camouflage paint to their war faces. Over near the port elevator bay stood the most important group of all, the media/observer team. There had been much debate about bringing them along, but in the end, the need to justify the action to the world community had won out. Dr. Kennelly from Oak Ridge was talking with Hans Ulrich from the IAEA. He smiled at the thought that these two bookish men had given them the first "tickle" on Bushehr. Both were looking decidedly uncomfortable in desert "cammies." Wendy Kwan and her CNN crew were mingling with the DoD Combat Camera team that would document the event for the world. She had been offered the opportunity as a reward for fingering Professor Kim Ha Soon at the automobile plant. Now she and her crew would get the rest of the story. Colonel Newman grimly smiled, and hoped that she would live to collect the Emmy that would inevitably be hers — if she survived.

Suddenly, Captain Fred Rainbow, commander of Bataan, ordered Battle Stations with an old-style bugle call, and then followed it up with the Marine Band's classic recording of The Marines Hymn. The troops on the hangar bay immediately struck a brace, and sang along at the top of their lungs. It was almost too much for Colonel Newman, who wondered how many of the young men and women in this bay he would have to write letters for tomorrow.

He went up to the LFOC on the 02 Level and sat down at his battle console, motionless until a thermal mug of coffee laced with cocoa thumped down in front of him. He looked up to see Lieutenant j.g. Jeff Harris, who had been transferred to his intelligence staff following his discovery of the two defensive platforms near Bushehr. "Showtime, sir," was the comment from the young officer, who showed a pensive smile. His errand to his colonel done, he sat at the console beside Newman's, where he would monitor the sensor feeds from the UAVs that had just launched from the flight deck of Trenton (LPD-14). The call to flight quarters brought Newman back to reality, and he said a silent prayer as he watched his Marines troop aboard the helicopters over the deck television monitor. Ten minutes later, they lifted off into the inky night.

Defense Platform #2,10 nm/18.3 km West of Bushehr, Iran, 0200 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The duty officer of the platform stood over a radar operator monitoring the formation of ships to the south. There had been some launching and landing of helicopters and Harrier jump jets, but this was entirely normal for the enemy, who loved to fly at night, like bats. The sensors of the heavily armed platform detected nothing unusual, and he picked up the telephone to report in to the security center at Bushehr. The fiber-optic data link to the center at the Bushehr Airport ensured that communications to the mainland were not subject to the vulnerability of radio transmission which could be jammed or intercepted by an enemy. As he finished his hourly check-in call, he moved over to the teapot to pour himself a cup of Persian brew. It would never touch his lips.

At precisely 0201 hours, an AV-8B Plus Harrier II from VMA-231 fired a salvo of four AGM-88 High Speed Anti-Radiation Missiles (HARMs). A few hundred feet above the platform, their warheads detonated almost simultaneously, spraying thousands of armor-piercing tungsten cubes which shredded exposed antennas and weapons canisters. Within a minute of the missile strike, a raider craft carrying a four-man SEAL team cut the armored fiber-optic cable back to the mainland and flashed a signal to an MV-22B Osprey. By 0204, over twenty Marines from the 22nd MEU (SOC)'s Maritime Special Purpose Force (MSPF) had fast-roped down to the deck and cleared out the seven survivors of the missile attack. The dazed prisoners were taken aboard the Osprey and sent back to the Bataan. At the same time, an identical force was taking out the other platform some miles to the south. The outer layer of Bushehr's defenses had just been eliminated, and the Iranians did not even know it. In a few more minutes, they would not care.

Road Causeway between the Town of Bushehr and the Power Plant, Iran, 0205 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The Marine Force Reconnaissance platoon had been in place for two days reporting back over a secure satellite link to Colonel Newman in the LFOC. Now they had just cut the phone lines to the power plant and prepared the causeway for demolition, should anyone try and come down the road. They were armed with Javelin anti-tank missiles to maul anyone who tried. This platoon was one of two covering access routes from the town of Bushehr, and the sergeants leading them prayed that the extraction plan worked as planned. The alternative was a very long walk to Pakistan.

Bushehr Airport, Bushehr, Iran, 0205 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The loss of signals from the data links was noticed immediately by Security Control at Bushehr airport. Like military personnel everywhere, the duty section called the maintenance section and poured another cup of tea to stay awake. Overhead, four bat-shaped B-2A Spirit stealth bombers from the 509th Wing at Whitman AFB, Missouri, silently took position for what had to be a perfect strike. They had staged out of Anderson AFB on Guam, refueling from K.C-10A Extenders based at Diego Garcia. At 2007 hours, sixteen GBU-29 Joint Direct Attack Munitions (JDAMs) precision-guided bombs dropped from each bomber's weapons bays. Each bomb was guided by a GPS receiver to fall within five meters of a pre-surveyed aim point. The most important targets got a pair of bombs, the rest received a single JDAM. The first weapons struck the hardened concrete of the security center as planned, slicing through overheads with the penetrating power of 2,000-lb/909.1-kg warheads. Within thirty seconds, the command center, post office, telephone exchange, runways, hardened aircraft shelters full of MiG-29s, and other targets around Bushehr had been neutralized.

Two minutes behind the B-2s came eight B-1B Lancers from the 7th Wing at Dyess AFB, Texas, also launched from Anderson AFB and refueled from KC-10As at Diego Garcia. Their targets were two battalions of troops in barracks adjacent to Bushehr airport. Each unloaded twelve AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapons (JSOWs) from their weapons bays, well outside Iranian airspace. Following a two-minute gliding flight, the ninety-six JSOWs, guided by onboard GPS receivers, unloaded their payloads of BLU-97/B Combined Effects Munitions (CEMs). They blanketed over a hundred acres of troop billeting and vehicle-parking areas with thousands of CEMs, and the effects were horrific. The two minutes since the bombs from the B-2 strike had given the troops time to throw on their boots, grab their weapons, and rush outside to be shredded into hamburger by exploding cluster munitions. After a few minutes, the Bushehr garrison could no longer defend itself, much less the power plant to the south.

Ra's-e Hhalileh Mud Flats, Southeast of Bushehr Power Plant, Iran, 0210 Hours, December 28th, 2006

Captain Hansen and his fifteen AAAVs were crawling across the mud flats south of the power plant. They had swum ashore minutes earlier, having crawled out of Trenton's well deck, some 25 nm/45.7 km offshore. Hansen had seen the flashes from the bombs in Bushehr, and was waiting for the radio signal that would send his pack of armored vehicles into a headlong cavalry charge. Nothing like this had been seen since Eagle Troop of the 2nd Armored Cavalry Regiment had charged an Iraqi brigade at the Battle of 73 Easting back in 1991. He just hoped that he was not leading his men into another Battle of the Little Bighorn.

The snipers of the 22nd MEU (SOC)'s BLT had broken into four teams, each armed with a Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifle. Each team sat in a spider hole, a mile from the guard posts of the power plant. As the spotters sighted the guards in the corner towers and passed them to the shooters, they awaited a signal at 0210 to go into action. The signal for each team came over a miniature satellite communications terminal, and all four fired their first shots within seconds of each other. Each weapon spat out a total of ten rounds, taking out the guards, radar and communications antennas, and power lines. Within a minute, all four teams flashed their "success" code back to Colonel Newman in Bataan's LFOC. With a murmur of, "Dear Lord, don't let me screw up," Hansen ordered the AAAVs into action.

The fifteen AAAVs spread out in a wide line and charged forward at over 40 mph/65.5 kph across the mud. When they came within 1,500 meters of the garrison perimeter, they opened up with 25mm cannons, spewing high-explosive incendiary (HEI) shells into the compound. Buildings began to burn and soldiers ran about wildly. Ragged return fire fell around the fast-moving AAAVs. Captain Hansen's men fired an occasional Javelin missile against anyone who got too accurate. The vehicles churned up the mud east of the compound, generally raising hell and making noise. Captain Hansen hoped it would be enough diversion to cover the rest of the Marines coming in from the sea.

Delivery Pier and Ramp, Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant, Iran, 0220 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The rigid raider craft had disembarked from an LCAC about 10 nm/18.3 km off the coast, and had come the rest of the way on muffled engines. When Colonel Newman sent out his "go" signal, the raiders made their dash for the loading ramp at full speed. They came ashore at almost the instant Captain Hansen's attack began, and were covered almost perfectly. Out of the rigid raiders came Charlie Company, which split into three teams. One platoon disposed of the guards at the security posts, and then set up a security cordon inside the razor-wire fence, just in case the Iranian guard force remembered its real job. The rest of the company headed into the plant for the hard part, the assault on the assembly and reactor control rooms. As they went in, a pair of LCACs headed into the dock area, loaded with trucks, LAVs, and other equipment.

Ra's-e Hhalileh Mud Flats, South of Bushehr Power Plant, Iran, 0220 Hours, December 28th, 2006

Captain Hansen had ordered his AAAVs into defilade behind some low rises, to reload their 25mm ammunition and Javelin launchers and draw the Iranians out of their barracks. It worked like a charm. About four hundred Iranians moved out of their compound, escorted by light trucks and scout vehicles armed with machine guns and recoilless rifles. They had closed within one thousand yards/meters of his line of vehicles when he made a radio call. Seconds later, two pairs of AH-1W Cobra attack helicopters rose on either flank of the Iranians and opened fire with 20mm cannons and 2.75-in. rocket pods. At the same time, the AAAVs began to fire again. It was a slaughter. Under fire from three directions, the Iranians could not even retreat. In a matter of moments, white flags began to appear, and Hansen was forced to order a "cease-fire." He then ordered the Cobras to hold them there, and ordered his vehicle towards the power plant, the sea, and, he hoped, safety. He had to make sure the rest of the security battalion was kept busy, but he doubted there was much left to occupy.

Over the Power Plant, Bushehr, Iran, 0222 Hours, December 28th, 2006

Lieutenant Colonel Colleen Taskins thumbed the "tilt" control on the throttle column and flared her MV-22B Osprey to a hover over the roof of the weapons assembly building. As the aircraft shuddered to a halt, she jammed the intercom button, and called, "Let 'em go, Chief!" Just behind her, the crew chief lowered the rear ramp and Marines began to fast-rope out of the side exits and the rear ramp. In less than thirty seconds, all twenty were on the roof, working their way down into the building. Scanning left and right, she saw that the other five Ospreys of her flight had offloaded their Marines. Punching the radio transmit button, she ordered them to head back over the Gulf to orbit and wait. She would return for the pickup in under an hour.

Weapons Assembly Room, Bushehr Power Plant, Iran, 0223 Hours December 28th, 2006

The warning klaxon sounded, and the security reaction team rushed to the access doors. It did no good. The guards had hardly made it to their posts when the lights went out and the doors were blown open by small shaped charges. Combined with some flash-bang grenades, the effect was intended to render those inside temporarily deaf and blind, unable to respond. It worked pretty well, with only two guards requiring some non-lethal projectiles to take them down. The use of less-than-deadly force was not so much in the interests of humanity, as to minimize dust and contaminants in the almost surgically clean room. Within seconds, the Marines had the room secured, and Lieutenant Colonel Tom Shaw, the commander of the 3/8 BLT, the 24th's GCE, strode in to take charge of the scene.

What he found was a white-painted, high ceilinged room that looked like a cross between an automobile service center and an operating room. Twelve assembly bays were located around the perimeter, each with a partially assembled warhead, or "physics package," sitting on an assembly stand. Off to the side of each assembly bay was a rolling rack of parts and sub-assemblies. As he surveyed the prisoners, he noticed three older men standing off to one side of the cluster of dejected personnel. He ordered two of his Marines to take charge of them and ensure they were on the first evacuation flight back to the Bataan. He then went outside and called Colonel Newman in the LFOC to tell him to get the "penthouse" cells of the ship's brig ready for three special prisoners, the Iranian Minister of Machinery, Colonel Gholam Hassanzadeh, and Professor Kim Ha Soon of North Korea. He wondered how the United Nations would deal with these three, but decided to leave that to those with better-looking suits than his. Right now, though, he had a more pressing problem to deal with. "Safeing" a live nuclear power plant.

A VMA-231 AV-8B Plus Harrier II Over the Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant, Bushehr, Iran, 0230 Hours, December 28th, 2006

From the cockpit of Spade-1, Major Terry "Pirate" Kidd could see almost everything happening below through his night-vision goggles and the multi-function display of his FLIR targeting pod. He was flying at 12,000 ft/3,667.7 m. as lead ship of a two Harrier flight assigned to cover Chilly Dog against interference by Iranian forces. Each aircraft carried pairs of Sidewinder and AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, two CBU-87 cluster bombs, a pair of AGM-65G Maverick air-to-ground missiles, and a GAU-12 25mm gun pod. He had listened to Spade-3 and -4 taking out the defense platforms with their HARMs, and was now using his APG-65 radar to track the movements of the HMM-263 helicopters.

As he and his wingman orbited back to the west, he saw the LCACs unloading vehicles and other equipment at the dock, and he smiled as Lieutenant Colonel Shaw called in the success code for capturing the Iranian nuclear weapons and personnel. All that was left was to take care of the reactor itself, and then to get everyone back out into international waters. Thus far, Chilly Dog had gone perfectly, with only two Marines from Charlie Company suffering minor wounds from stray Iranian fire at the power plant.

Then it happened. One of the AH-1 W attack helicopters came too close to the Iranian garrison compound, and a trio of shoulder-fired SA-16 missiles lanced out towards the Cobra. The helicopter evaded two of the missiles through a combination of maneuver and decoy flares, but the last missile hit home on the tail boom. Though it was heavily damaged, the pilot managed to get it to the ground, but not before he and the gunner both suffered sprained backs and ankles. They managed to crawl away from the wreckage (which, thankfully, didn't burn), calling on their rescue radios for a TRAP mission. Pirate immediately called for the standby TRAP team: a CH-53E and two Harriers. The TRAP team Marines were standing by on the hangar deck ready to go, and Colonel Newman in the LFOC indicated that they would be on station in twenty minutes. Until then, Pirate and Spade-2 would provide cover for the two downed Marines.

The first problem was to suppress the continuing ground fire from the Iranian compound. Kidd locked up his FLIR onto an air conditioning unit on the top of the nearest barracks and slaved his radar to provide a good delivery solution. He ordered his wingman in Spade-2 to hit the other end of the compound, and they dove on the complex, releasing their CBU-87s. Kidd tried to put out of his mind that he had probably just killed a hundred or more Iranian soldiers. Combat was like that. In the end, what kept him focused was the fact that he was doing it for two brother Marines who were down and hurt. His mind clearer, he turned the Harrier flight around in a wide starboard turn, and headed back to the crash site.

Reactor Control Room, Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant, Iran, 0250 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The last act of the Chilly Dog assault plan was "safeing" the reactor plant. This meant finding a way to rapidly shut down the plant, and then to make it incapable of producing plutonium. The solution had been found in an IAEA report on a Czech nuclear plant that was a near twin of the Bushehr facility.

When you perform an emergency shutdown of a nuclear pile, called a SCRAM, there is a lot of latent heat left in the reactor. Even with the cooling pumps working full speed, the IAEA specialists figured that it would take three to four days for the plant to go "cold" to the point where it could be completely shut down. Destroying the huge water-cooling towers was out of the question. Damaging the control rod assembly was also ruled out, since it would require opening the radioactive reactor pressure vessel. The experts therefore decided that the safest course of action would be to eliminate the ability to restart the reactor by taking out the control rod electronics and consoles, once the reactor had been SCRAMed and backup generators started to maintain the cooling pumps' vital flow of water. This would require access to the main control room of the plant, and that was easier said than done.

Just as the laws of physics dictate the design of a nuclear reactor core, regardless of the owner's ideology, the laws of small-arms fire and human psychology dictate the design of a reactor control complex. Security is a fundamental design criterion. To be certified as safe to operate, a reactor control complex must pass a rigorous security-threat evaluation, just as its overall design, systems redundancy, documentation, and operator training must be evaluated by appropriate experts. Over the years, a great deal of high-tech wizardry had been proposed for ensuring the safety of reactor controls against a well-armed and well-organized terrorist attack. Entry locks keyed to retinal patterns, fingerprints, or brain-wave spectrums of authorized personnel. Passageways that can be instantly filled with sticky foam, or debilitating gas.

At Bushehr, though, physical security relied on the tried and true system of steel doors with firing ports, and men with automatic weapons behind them. These defenses were deployed in depth, with a labyrinth of right-angle turns that created "man-trap" corridors with kill zones swept by fire from two directions.

But anything defended by men with guns can be taken by men with guns. The variables are hard to quantify, but they include training, small-unit cohesion, special weapons and tactics, and something indefinable that falls somewhere between uncommon valor and common craziness. The Marines of the 22nd MEU (SOC) had practiced this drill many times, often taking the role of the "aggressor" forces in exercises staged with the cooperation of the Department of Energy at a variety of active and decommissioned nuclear plants.

The main outer gate resembled a bank vault door; indeed it had been installed by the same firm that supplied most of the vaults for the better-known Swiss banks. In initial planning for the mission, Major Shaw of VMA-231 had proposed cracking the gate with the formidable armor-piercing warheads of precision-guided Maverick missiles; but the problem of targeting in the confusion of the ground battle, the proximity of friendly troops, and the risk of collateral damage to the plant had ruled this out.

In the end it came down to the practiced eye and hand of Lance Corporal Drew Richardson, an AT-4 missile gunner in the Heavy Weapons Platoon of Charlie Company. Repeated direct hits with shoulder-fired rockets left the massive steel door twisted and hanging from its hinges. Two Marines managed to loop a steel cable around the wreckage, and the powerful winch on an LAV combat engineer vehicle, landed by one of the LCACs, pulled it clear. Inside the door, the passageway made a right-angle turn, and the darkened corridor was under fire from both ends.

The security team had ordered the control crew, including the foreign contract workers, behind an armored door, and prepared to defend the room against the Marines that they now knew were inside the perimeter of the power plant. They had given up trying to call for outside help long ago, the phone lines having been cut by the Force Reconnaissance teams and the airwaves jammed by a LAV electronic combat vehicle brought ashore by the LCACs. There was little they could do except defend the room to the death, which was exactly what they intended to do.

The drill for the forced-entry team was not subtle. One man would toss smoke grenades around the corner, while a pair of AT-4 gunners, each wearing a respirator and lightweight FLIR goggles, rolled out onto the floor, firing into the next barrier. The team leader used a thermal viewer with a right-angle periscope to determine the results of each shot. This had to be repeated several times before the last guard posts were silenced and the final steel door to the reactor control room was breached with a demolition charge.

The assault force poured through the opening, to take the control room crew into temporary custody. The night-duty crew inside the control room consisted of about a dozen technicians. Some had been deafened by the blast, and a few were cut by splinters, but they had had the sense to stay away from the door when they heard the first muffled explosions. As the Marines cautiously entered the room, they quickly secured the technicians, binding their wrists with plastic handcuffs, and separating the contract workers from the Iranians. The native technicians were trooped outside to a holding area, while the three foreigners were kept in the room.

Among them was Lev Davidovich Telfian, who had wisely donned earplugs and goggles before the engagement began. He had decided as soon as the first warning had sounded to lay low, taking no action that might be construed as favoring either side. While he hoped that the Marines would evacuate him, he feared that they might just as well leave him behind. He was relieved when the young lieutenant commanding the assault team came forward and greeted him personally with a warm handshake.

AH-1W Crash Site South of Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant, Iran, 0255 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The two Cobra crewmen had taken cover behind a large rock, and were monitoring the status of the TRAP team's progress on their rescue radios. Colonel Newman was better than his word, and the big CH-53E with its security team arrived eighteen minutes after the emergency call. With two fresh Harriers flying top cover, the Super Stallion touched down, and a platoon of Marines fanned out to surround the site. While four Navy corpsmen saw to the injuries of the Cobra crewmen, four more Marines approached the wreck of the AH-1W, secured the classified and crypto components, and set demolition charges to ensure nothing useful to the Iranians was left behind. Five minutes later, mission accomplished, the CH-53E lifted off. The charges detonated, turning the wreck into a blazing fireball of jet fuel and ammunition.

Reactor Control Room, Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant, Iran, 0310 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The control room was becoming crowded with all the witnesses and the CNN camera crew. Colonel Newman had made it clear that this phase of Chilly Dog would be documented to the smallest detail. For Wendy Kwan, looking somewhat less than glamorous in a desert camouflage Kevlar helmet and battle-dress uniform, it was the most exhilarating and frightening experience of her life. She watched as the Marine technical team leader pressed the red SCRAM buttons for each reactor, setting off a chorus of alarms. Each move was supervised by Hans Ulrich, Professor Kennelly, and a Russian she did not know. After the alarms and warning indicators had been turned off, and the backup generators had automatically kicked in to keep the cooling circulation pumps running, the Marines went to work.

They rapidly dismantled the control rod assembly panel, leaving only cable ends clipped off, their connectors removed for good measure. The racks of control electronics were given the same treatment and wheeled out of the room. Finally, a pair of Marines with sticky-foam guns arrived. They filled the control conduits to the reactors with the quick-setting foam, making it impossible to restore the plant's control circuits without extensive demolition work. When this was done, the room was evacuated, and it was time to go home. Ten minutes later, at the suggestion of Lieutenant Colonel Shaw, the Iranian technicians returned to the control room, taking over the job of monitoring coolant flow to the rapidly faltering reactor.

LFOC, USS Bataan (LHD-5), 40 nm/73 km West of Bushehr, Iran, 0315 Hours, December 28th, 2006

Criminals say that breaking into a bank is hard, but getting away is harder. It was now time for the 22nd MEU (SOC) to get the hell out of Iran. While they had done immense damage, their luck could not hold forever. Already there were seven casualties, and additional delay on the Iranian coast would only cause more. First to go were the LCACs, with their load of equipment from the plant and reprocessing facility, as well as the heavy vehicles and trucks. The partially assembled warheads followed in a pair of CH-53Es, along with the prisoners from the assembly room in MV-22Bs. Charlie Company in their rigid raiders left next, escorted by the three surviving Cobra gunships. A single CH-53E, covered by Major Kidd's two Harriers, moved around the battlefield, retrieving sniper and Force Reconnaissance teams. Captain Hansen and his AAAVs withdrew through the mud flats, to begin their high-speed swim back to Trenton (LPD-14). Last out was Lieutenant Colonel Shaw aboard Lieutenant Colonel Taskins's Osprey. Five minutes later, the only sounds to be heard at the Bushehr nuclear power plant were the hum of the backup generators and circulation pumps and the sputtering explosions of ammunition cooking off in the barracks across the road.

USS Bataan (LHD-5), 0415 Hours, December 28th, 2006

The Air Boss spent a busy twenty minutes getting LCACs and aircraft aboard; the elevators had never been worked so hard in so short a time. First aboard were the Harriers, which were rapidly rearmed, refueled, and launched to provide combat air patrol (CAP) during the critical hours to come. The nuclear material was loaded into shielded containers and sealed for shipment. The prisoners were processed into three groups. The "special" tags were assigned to key leaders and technicians, who went straight to the ship's brig and a round-the-clock suicide watch. Minor personnel were restricted to a chain-link-fenced area in the hangar bay, until they could be returned to Iran through the Red Cross. Finally, there were evacuees like Lev Davidovich Telfian, who were given a ration of medical bourbon, a hot breakfast, and a stateroom to sleep off their adventures. He shared it with the Pakistani technician who had passed him the CD-ROM, and both slept well for the first time in months. For the Marines, Captain Rainbow had laid on a special meal of steak and eggs, followed by a quick cleaning and stowing of weapons before they hit their bunks. When Trenton rejoined the formation, the ARG and its escorts laid on 24 kt/44 kph, and headed for the Straits of Hormuz. There they would pick up a CAP of F-14 Tomcats and F/A-18 Hornets from Constellation, and would head out into the open ocean and Diego Garcia, where they would off-load their cargo and passengers.

USS Constellation (CV-64) Battle Group, Arabian Sea, 0430 Hours, December 28th, 2006

As things calmed down in the Persian Gulf, there was one final act to Chilly Dog. At 0430 hours, two Aegis cruisers and a pair of Spruance-class destroyers began to launch a strike by 124 BGM-109 Tomahawk missiles against the automobile factory at Bandar al Abbas and missile batteries in the Straits of Hormuz. After an overland flight from the Arabian Sea side of Iran, they leveled their targets, fully 88 % of the missiles striking their designated aim-points. With this, Chilly Dog came to an end. The political fallout around the world, though, would last for months.

Joint Session of the U.S. Congress, Washington, D.C., January 18th, 2007

The final words of the President's 2005 State of the Union Address were simple, as all good speeches should be. "Ladies and gentlemen, I summarize the results of the Bushehr Raid in this way. We have decisively ended a clear violation of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, as well as a threat to the stability of Southwest Asia. Even more important, the individuals who perpetrated this violation are to be tried shortly for crimes against humanity. Already, we have seen the fall of the Islamic Revolutionary government in Iran and the beginning of a thaw between ourselves and the people of that troubled land. We offer the hand of friendship and commerce to the people of Iran, and the hope that the terrible fire that we have contained will never again raise its head in the Persian Gulf.

"I also wish to thank the men and women who conducted this action. We live in a new millennium, and unless we choose different paths for ourselves and our world, the human race will not see another. Luckily, we have good people out there who stand on the walls, and guard them for us as we sleep. I never want to be without a military to watch over our interests, and protect them. God bless them, and God bless the United States of America!"

Officers' Mess, USS Bataan (LHD-5), Western Mediterranean, January 18th, 2007

Lev Davidovich Telfian watched the State of the Union address with a smile on his face, knowing that he had helped in bringing a happy end to this situation. He was still aboard the Bataan, where he would be safer until the memories of the Iranians were less fresh. Telfian had been thinking about what he wanted to do next, and he had several offers. One came from the IAEA to work on an inspection team in South America and Africa. Another one had been extended from the U.S., to work as a consultant for the Defense Nuclear Agency on counter-proliferation issues. Even the SVR was making him an offer, as an intelligence analyst at Moscow headquarters. That last one held few attractions for him. Perhaps the Americans. At least they were working to take the damned bombs apart. After being so close to the nuclear genie for so long, perhaps it was time to try and force it back into the bottle.

Limbang Valley, Brunei, September 2nd, 2008

This morning, the Sultan of Brunei would dedicate a new clinic for the hill tribes of the upper Limbang Valley. The Royal helicopter, a luxurious Sikorsky S-76, snaked up the valley from the South China Sea toward the rain-forested mountains of northern Borneo. It was only a twenty-minute flight from the Palace, and the airspace over the entire district had been cleared of other traffic. Sometimes the Sultan, an enthusiastic and reasonably skilled pilot, liked to take the controls himself, but today he was content to sit back and browse through the electronic edition of the Wall Street Journal on his new Toshiba data pad. The lead story was, in fact, about his plan for partition and management of newly surveyed oil fields in the South China Sea.

They centered around the Spratlys, a few barren reefs that had ambitions to be islands at low tide. The new oil pools were probably the biggest at-sea petroleum find since the North Sea fields back in the 1970s. Unfortunately, the nations surrounding this oil discovery were nowhere as reasonable as Great Britain and Norway when they partitioned the North Sea fields. Half a dozen nations had claims over the new oil find, and few of these nations could be described as "reasonable." To the east lay the Philippines, where a share of the oil revenue might relieve an exploding population's chronic poverty. To the west, the Communist governments of China and Vietnam coveted oil to fuel their economies and earn hard currency from petroleum exports. To the north, Taiwan, still claiming to be the "true" Government of China, felt entitled to a piece of China's share. But the real trouble lay to the south, where Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, and Brunei all had claims on the new fields, and some of them were willing to fight for a larger share.

Tiny Brunei, with the wells that produced fabled North Borneo crude, the world's purest oil, was the richest nation per capita in the world. This provoked envy among neighbors, particularly Malaysia, with its growing population, simmering ethnic tensions, and lack of oil resources. The Malays had been full of threats this past summer. The reason was the upcoming United Nations conference at the end of October which would settle, once and for all, the development plans for the South China Sea oil fields. Malaysia had joined Indonesia in a coalition for the coming conference, and was trying to entice Singapore. The same offer had been extended to the Sultan, but he had politely declined the invitation.

He would place a proposal on the table to create a multi-national non-profit corporation which would invest the oil income into a regional development fund to build schools, roads, and other infrastructure so badly needed by the peoples of the region. The Sultan knew that the leaders of the other countries did not share his vision, and this was why he wanted to put his ideas on the table at the UN. The article in the Wall Street Journal spelled out the details of the plan-as well as the first reactions to it, which had come quickly. Malaysia and Indonesia had denounced it. Vietnam and China had remained ominously silent. But Singapore, Taiwan, and the Philippines had all endorsed the idea, and this gave him hope. He smiled and sat back, composing his thoughts for the clinic dedication.

The bright, newly painted yellow circled "H" of the clinic's medevac landing pad was just coming into view around a bend in the river. Today's duty pilot for the Royal Flight was a retired British Fleet Air Arm commander with thousands of hours logged in just about anything with rotors. He had also been trained in escape and evasion. It didn't do him much good. He caught the flash on the ground and instinctively pulled into a hard break to starboard. The data pad flew out of the Sultan's grip and bounced off the Plexiglas windscreen.

The pilot's move was too late. The seeker head of the first shoulder-fired missile had locked onto the hot metal of the turbine exhaust even as other missiles lanced upward from the opposite side of the valley. The high-explosive warhead detonated on impact with the port engine, shredding fuel lines, hydraulic tubing, and control cables. A single missile hit might have resulted in a survivable crash, but the second hit turned the tough and graceful chopper into a flying cloud of flaming wreckage. By the time the stunned VIPs and the medical team from the clinic arrived at the crash site, His Royal Highness, the Sultan of Brunei, by some estimates the world's richest human, was identifiable only from dental records.

The Palace, Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei, September 2nd, 2008

Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah, twenty-six years old, was on the tennis court with an instructor when the elderly, respectful, and impeccably discreet palace chamberlain arrived with the news of his father's death. Omar was unsure which of his innumerable half-brothers had engineered the assassination, though he had a reasonable suspicion which foreign power had provided the hit team, and he knew that his own life would not be worth a ringgit if he were found anywhere within the fifty-acre Palace compound. Twenty minutes later, veiled and shrouded in women's garb and surrounded by a gaggle of his favorite sister's servants, he slipped out of a little-used riverfront exit and boarded a small boat. Within an hour, dressed in the plain white uniform of a junior naval ensign, he was embarked on the rusty but trusty missile patrol boat Pejuang, listening to the throb of the twin diesels as she slipped out of Muara harbor, bound for the treacherous shoals of Louisa Reef.

The young Prince ("No, now I have to start thinking of myself as the Sultan," he thought) had many worries, but pursuit was not one of them. There were men he could trust in the Navy. As the sun went down over the South China Sea in another magnificent tropical blaze of glory, every other patrol boat in the Royal Brunei Navy swung gently at her moorings, polished and scrubbed to the best Portsmouth standards, and thoroughly sabotaged. Within days, some very junior mechanic's mates would pay with their lives for their loyalty to their Prince.

British Embassy, Washington, D.C., September 5th, 2008

The package had arrived on a trans-Pacific red-eye flight into Dulles from Singapore under the diplomatic seal of Her Majesty's Foreign Service. It was picked up by a car from the British Embassy and escorted by two Secret Service Chevrolet Blazers. That was unusual, but at that hour, there was no one around to take any particular notice. The men gathered to examine the package came from a variety of military, diplomatic, and intelligence services. The Americans had better teeth. The British wore better-fitting suits. They had all been through this drill before. A fine linen tablecloth was flung over the exquisitely inlaid conference table; then the work began. Some of the tropical hardwood trees from which the table was made had been logged over a hundred years before, not far from the crash site. The package was opened without ceremony, and the charred and blackened shards of metal were passed from hand to hand for examination and judgment.

"Our Special Air Service lads picked these bits up the night after the crash. Rather a lot of confusion on the scene, as you can imagine. They had the devil of a job getting in and out without being spotted."

"No question," one of the Americans finally said. "This is a Chinese copy of the Stinger."

The missiles that had downed the Sultan's helicopter were, therefore, untraceable. You could pick one up in any Third World arms bazaar for a few thousand deutschmarks. The next question, asked by the President's National Security Advisor, was aimed at the British ambassador.

"Mister Ambassador, what is the position of the British Government on this matter?"

"My Prime Minister is, as you know, in a very difficult position. British Shell and Lloyds are the primary guarantors of more than a trillion British pounds of investment in both Malaysia and Brunei. Potential revenues from those two countries represent many times that amount. As might be imagined, British industry is putting huge pressure on our government to do absolutely nothing and accept this new arrangement as a fait acompli. The reality is that what we have here is nothing more than the rape of a small country by a larger and more powerful neighbor, just like Kuwait in 1990. Thus, while we will not be seen taking active measures, rest assured that we will support any initiative by your Government to restore the status quo." The ambassador then extended his hand to seal the latest of many such back-channel deals between the United Kingdom and her former American colony. Once again, the "special relationship" had been reaffirmed.

Off Louisa Reef, South China Sea, 0400 Hours, September 6th, 2008

Commander Chu Hsiang-kuo raised Hai Lung's periscope and slewed it around the horizon with a practiced flick of the wrist. There was the Bruneian patrol boat, a few hundred yards/meters to the south, just where he had been told to expect it. "Helm, come to course one hundred eighty degrees, slow to five knots and prepare to surface." Chu clicked the stopwatch button on his Rolex watch, a gift from an uncle who owned a major Taiwanese electronics firm. He planned to spend no more than three minutes on the surface, and had drilled his crew for days to shave every possible second off the tricky rendezvous and pickup. There were too many Mainland Chinese patrol planes about to allow him the luxury of loitering on the surface. Two minutes and forty nine seconds later the hatch clanged shut and His Royal Highness, the Sultan of Brunei, was a guest aboard the Republic of China's best submarine. The traditional formalities of piping a head of state on board were dispensed with; Omar simply gave Commander Chu a bear hug. The Prince was finally safe, though the patrol boat crew would have to hot-bunk in the Taiwanese sub's cramped accommodations for a while. As Hai Lung (Sea Dragon) dove, the patrol boat Pejuang wallowed deeper on the glassy sea and slowly capsized. Scuttling charges might have attracted unwanted attention. The Mainland Chinese had wired these waters for sound, and this last act of Brunei's Navy was played out quietly.

The Palace, Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei, September 6th, 2008

Surrounded by thuggish bodyguards, twenty-one-year-old Prince Abdelrahman, brother of the missing Crown Prince, looked distinctly uncomfortable in the uniform of a field marshal. It would be his first press conference. Although his handlers had thoroughly drilled and briefed him in the four days since the assassination, the "live" satellite feed, in English with simultaneous translation into Malay, Mandarin Chinese, and several regional dialects, had a seven-second delay; and a senior Malaysian intelligence officer, covered as an audio technician, was standing by the "kill" switch, just in case Abdelrahman said anything particularly stupid.

He coughed and stuttered out, "In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate, I, Prince Abdelrahman Bolkiah, Sultan of Brunei, have the sad duty to inform my people and the world of the events that have shattered the peace and tranquillity of our country during the past week. We have uncovered proof that our late father, the Sultan, was treacherously murdered in a plot by our half-brother, the former Crown Prince Omar, who has fled the country. We will pursue this criminal by every possible means and bring him to justice. Our government will regard it as a most serious breach of international law if any foreign power gives sanctuary to this criminal.

"Even as We exert every effort to avenge our father's murder, we must take thought for the future of our people. For over a hundred years, this Sultanate has been a vestige of colonialism and a geopolitical anomaly." He paused for a sip of water. The English phrases would be a mouthful for the poor translators. "We have consulted with representatives of our people and our faith." He nodded toward the hard-line Islamic fundamentalist imams who had taken control of the local ulema, the collective interpreters of Muslim religious law.

"We have therefore determined that Brunei will formally request admission to the Federation of Malaysia. We have received assurances from His Excellency, the Prime Minister of Malaysia, that the traditional prerogatives of the Sultanate and the customs, culture, and traditions of our people will be fully respected. Also, in the forthcoming international conference on territorial waters in the South China Sea, Brunei's historic claims will be represented with the full power of the Malaysian Federation. Our military forces will be merged into the Malaysian armed forces, and the Brunei dollar will be withdrawn from circulation and exchanged for the Malaysian ringgit at a very favorable rate. Foreign embassies will be given every assistance in relocating their facilities and staff to Kuala Lumpur, and we invite all the nations with which we have enjoyed friendly diplomatic relations to maintain an appropriate consulate here in Bandar Seri Begawan." He finished with the words "Peace be upon you." There were no questions. Everyone agreed that, for his first press conference, the kid had followed the script pretty well.

Headquarters, Fleet Marine Force, Pacific, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, September 7th, 2008

Lieutenant General Sidney Bear, USMC, was not a subtle man. Built like his name, he carried an old Naval Academy nickname of "Teddy," reflecting his kind and gentle nature. But at times he had a temper. Now was one of those times. As commander of Marine Forces, Pacific (FMFPAC), he was responsible for all Marine Corps activities in the Pacific Theater, and he had problems, both big and small. The American decision not to recognize the new Sultan and ignore the order to relocate the U.S. Embassy in BSB had caught U.S. Pacific Command by surprise. The general's first concern was for his own, of course, the squad of Marine guards at the U.S. Embassy in BSB. He quickly set up a video teleconference over a secure satellite link. The military attache at the embassy was an Air Force lieutenant colonel, but the general was relieved to see that the security detachment was led by an experienced gunnery sergeant. This was probably the first time the gunny had ever talked to a three-star general via the jerky image and fuzzy audio of an encrypted video phone, but his confidence and professionalism came across loud and clear.

"We've had a crowd of people at the gate this morning lined up to apply for visas, sir, but otherwise it's been business as usual."

"Gunny, I'm counting on you to be my eyes and ears until we can get you some reinforcements. Have your men keep a low profile. If they storm the embassy, let 'em have it. It's not worth dying for. We're gonna get you out of there real soon, but until then you're my eyes and ears on the spot. Anything unusual happens, you get on the horn to my Ops officer, ASAP. Understood?"

"Semper Fi, sir!"

No further explanation was required.

The White House, Washington, D.C., 1000 Hours, September 8th, 2008

The Secretary of Defense brought over a vanload of wall charts, slides, high-resolution satellite imagery, and documents to brief the President of the United States about the situation in Brunei. Then, the Secretary of State discussed the regional and global ramifications of the crisis. Finally, the National Security Advisor and the Chief of Staff explained it to him in simple language. These preliminaries over, the President made phone calls to London, Paris, and Moscow, and it was decided. The change of government in Brunei was an illegal coup d'etat. The policy of the United States was not to recognize any change in the international status of the Sultanate, and to seek to restore the reign of his rightful successor, the Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah.

Somebody recalled a phrase from the early 90s. "This will not stand."

A political solution through the United Nations Security Council would be pressed, but NSA analysis of the message traffic out of Beijing made it clear that a Chinese veto could be expected. That left only one alternative. The Secretary of Defense called the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The Chairman called CINPAC. CINCPAC called the FMFPAC. A planning cell was activated in a dingy basement office under security so tight that only a half-dozen officers were fully "read-in" on the time, the place, and the objective. Wheels began to turn.

Headquarters, The 7th Gurkha Rifles, Seria, Brunei, September 9th, 2008

For decades Brunei Shell Petroleum had entrusted the security of its oil fields to the small, brown, and very capable hands of the Gurkhas. A Nepalese hill tribe, the Gurkhas enjoyed a unique relationship with the British Crown, combining elements of honor, tradition, mutual admiration, and direct cash payment. Maintaining a regiment of nine hundred Gurkhas cost the Sultan fully five million British pounds a year, and it was worth every penny. Nobody messed with the Sultan's oil fields. No professional soldier in the world ever wanted to go up against Gurkhas.

It was a delicate situation. Recruited and trained for generations by the British Army, the Gurkhas had been hired by Brunei to defend its oil fields, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that as long as one of them remained alive, they would do exactly that. Colonel Rai stood 5 ft 4 in./1.6 m tall and weighed about 105 lb/47.6 kg, soaking wet. He was fifty-two years old, and could still decapitate a water buffalo with one stroke of his razor-sharp kukri, the curved fighting knife that represented the mystical center of the Gurkha warrior tradition. He rarely wore his full-dress uniform; his days were mostly spent on patrol with his men, or with the handful of foreign special forces officers who were favored with the privilege of jungle training with the Gurkhas. But today, every crease was as sharp as a kukri, and every bit of brass gleamed like gold, because he was receiving a special guest, a personal envoy from his own Hindu monarch, the King of Nepal. Tea was poured, gifts were exchanged, and there was polite small talk while an orderly cleared the table.

"His Majesty desires the presence of your regiment in Katmandu for an important ceremony," the envoy said.

"We are not worthy of such an honor, and duty requires our presence here in Brunei. Surely His Majesty understands," Rai said.

"The 14th Gurkha Rifles will rotate in temporarily to perform your duties. The British Prime Minister has graciously offered the use of Royal Air Force transports to fly you and your men directly to Nepal at no cost."

The warrior and the diplomat made eye contact. Faint smiles flickered across their impassive faces. Little was said and much was understood.

"Please convey to His Majesty my deepest gratitude for this honor."

By the end of the week, the 7th Rifles were out of the country, and for some unaccountable reason, they wound up in Manila, billeted in the same hotel as the Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah. At the same time, the 14th Gurkhas were held up in transit. Problems with paperwork, it was said. Diplomatic channels hummed with profuse apologies, while Malaysian authorities scrambled to recruit temporary security guards. For now, though, the new Sultan had only a Malaysian shield.

Prime Minister's Residence, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 1430 hours, September 10th, 2008

It was intolerable. The Prime Minster was not a patient man. He had devoted a long career to building up his fragile nation into a respected regional economic and military power. And now the insolent American task force, steaming provocatively though his territorial seas, was requesting that Malaysian patrol planes keep a distance of at least 50 nm/91.4 km to avoid "unfortunate incidents." In response, he had summoned the American ambassador and browbeaten the man for half an hour. The bland diplomatic replies about "freedom of navigation" and "precautionary measures" had only infuriated him more. Malays could be a hot-tempered people. Amok is a Malay word, and the Prime Minister was just about ready to run amok. As soon as the American had been dismissed, the Prime Minister grabbed the red phone that connected him directly to the Armed Forces Chief of Staff. He would give them an incident to remember.

Above the South China Sea, 1500 Hours, September 10th, 2008

There was a time when a flight of four vintage MiG-29 Fulcrum-Cs flying top cover for a gaggle of four shiny new F/A-18C Hornets might have seemed bizarre. In the New World Order, though, any mix of aircraft was possible. The Malaysian Air Force had stretched its limited budget by driving hard bargains, East and West, and the result was this formation. Squadron Leader Edward Tawau, call sign Red Dragon, nervously thumbed the stick's radar-mode select switch between air-search and surface-search modes. He didn't like this mission one bit. His orders were to fly directly over the ships of the American task force at low altitude, cracking sonic booms just above their mastheads. At the pre-dawn briefing, the Wing Commander had assured the pilots that the Americans would back off as soon as they understood that Malaysia was serious about enforcing its sovereignty.

The Wing Commander (call sign Blue Python) had been born into a princely family of one of the little sultanates that made up the Malay Federation and trained by the RAF. He was contemptuous of Americans, a strange people, wholly without courtesy and lacking in any sense of family honor or obligation. On the other hand, the Squadron Leader's parents had met in a factory that assembled circuit boards for an American computer company, and he had learned to fly his F/A-18C Hornet in Florida. He might not understand Americans, but he was not likely to underestimate them.

"Red Dragon, this is Blue Python," the radio crackled. "Surface ships bearing one hundred degrees at seventy-five miles." Tawau briefly flicked the switch to surface-search mode to confirm the contact, then went radar-silent. No point in giving the Americans any extra advance warning. They would be over the target in ten minutes. Five minutes later, his radar-warning receiver alarm sounded. One of the American escorts had just locked him up with a fire-control radar. This game of chicken was getting serious!

Combat Information Center (CIC), USS Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), 1505 Hours, September 10th, 2008

Captain Mike Anderson had seen the incoming flock of fighters at almost 120 nm/220 km, and had already taken measures to deal with the threat. Two AV-8B Plus Harrier IIs loaded with Sidewinders and AMRAAMs on "Plus Five" alert had been launched when the force had hit 100 nm/183 km, and two more were being readied for launch. Then, over the communications net, he heard the PHIBRON commander, a rear admiral, order, "Warning Yellow, Weapons Hold," to the force and its escorts. This meant that an attack was expected, and that weapons could be fired in the event of a hostile act. What was headed their way looked like big trouble, and Anderson ordered General Quarters. It was going to be an exciting few minutes.

Red Python Flight, 1508 Hours, September 10th, 2008

At 65 nm/ 119 km, Squadron Leader Tawau heard an American-accented voice over the Guard channel of his radio warning them to veer off and maintain at least 50 nm/91.4 km distance from the force. Through his headphones, he heard the Wing Commander snort his contempt in response and order the aircraft to continue. It was getting ugly. Tawau decided to check the air situation, and was not surprised to see a pair of unidentified contacts closing in from the side. It got even worse a minute later. After crossing of the 50-nm/91.4-km line, his radar-warning receiver blared, showing a pair of air intercept radars to port. He wanted to order his flight to turn around, but as he moved his finger to press the microphone button, two of his F/A-18s exploded into blazing fireballs, victims of what had to be the fabled AIM- 120 AMRAAM missiles of the American fighters. Then, through the top of his canopy, he saw two MiGs explode in the same way. Over the radio, he heard the Wing Commander call for him to close on the ships and shout, "Weapons free!" on the squadron net. Feeling growing anger at this stupidity, but unable to defy an order, he ordered the surviving Hornet in his flight to follow him, selected afterburner, turned on his jammer, and put the nose over into a dive heading for the amphibious ships. He never saw the Wing Commander's aircraft disintegrate into a ball of fire from a Sidewinder hit and the surviving MiG-29 running for home. He was following the last legal order he had been given, bad as it was.

Minutes later, as the indistinct shapes of the task force appeared as dots on the horizon, he saw the flash and smoke trail that indicated a SAM launch from one of the escorts. Both F/A-18Cs commenced evasive maneuvers heading for the deck. As he did, the SAM arched down towards him, detonating above and behind. Shredded by the fragments from the warhead, his Hornet began to break up, and he activated his ejection seat. Seeing his flight leader shot down roused the other young Malaysian pilot to fury, and he continued down to just above the wave tops. Heading along the last bearing to the enemy task force, he flew until one of the big amphibious ships suddenly loomed right in front of him. Arming his Gatling gun, he lined up on the ship and set up a shallow dive for a strafing run….

Aboard the USS Germantown (LSD-42), 1513 Hours, September 10th, 2008

When the F/A-18s had continued on a course that looked like a classic attack profile, the ARG commander had given orders that enabled the fire-control computers to engage as soon as hostile aircraft came within weapons range. But no one could have predicted that one F/A-18 pilot was crazy enough to close to strafing range at wave-top level, and no one could have predicted how badly a long burst of 20mm shells could shred the bridge of an amphibious transport. It did the young Hornet pilot little good in any case. One of the Germantown's 20mm Mk 16 Phalanx CIWS mounts shattered the F/A-18, sending it careening into the sea, killing the pilot.

Pentagon Press Room, 0800 Hours, September 10th, 2008

"At approximately 2:00 AM Eastern Time this morning, eight Malaysian aircraft were detected approaching a U.S. Navy task force in international waters, transiting the South China Sea. After ignoring repeated requests on recognized international frequencies to maintain a safe distance, these aircraft were engaged by defensive systems. We believe that seven were shot down and one turned back. One aircraft closed on USS Germantown and opened fire with its cannon before being shot down. Twenty-six sailors and Marines on board Germantown were killed, and eighteen were seriously injured.

"Air-sea rescue helicopters from the task force are still searching for survivors from the Malaysian aircraft. The Secretary has asked me to emphasize that the United States does not regard this incident as an act of war. Let me repeat, we are not at war with Malaysia. We are attempting to defuse a volatile situation in a troubled part of the world. At an appropriate time we will seek, through diplomatic means, a formal apology for the loss of American lives and compensation from Malaysia for the damage to our ship. Meanwhile, the United States intends to closely watch the situation in occupied Brunei and will continue to uphold the principle of freedom of navigation in international waters, as we have done for over two hundred years."

When the Department of Defense press officer sat down, the State Department press officer took the microphone, cleared her throat, and read the paper that had been handed to her a few minutes earlier.

"Until the situation is clarified, the State Department has advised Americans in Malaysia or occupied Brunei to leave the country by the first available means. Also, American passports will not be valid for travel to Malaysia or occupied Brunei. The President has issued an Executive Order freezing all assets of Malaysia and Brunei in American financial institutions. Our Ambassador to the United Nations has asked for an emergency meeting of the Security Council tomorrow morning. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. No questions, please."

United Nations, New York City, September 11th, 2008

The resolution carried, with fourteen for, one against (Indonesia), and two abstentions (China, Japan). If China had vetoed the resolution, Malaysia's annexation of Brunei would have been a done deal, and the fragile "New World Order" could like it or lump it. Diplomatic pressure cut no mustard with the Chinese Communists. But in the days before the vote, chief executives of the major Western and Japanese banks and oil companies had called their Chinese contacts with a simple, back-channel message. If the takeover of Brunei went unchallenged, there would be no credits for any offshore oil development in the South China Sea, regardless of territorial claims by any power in the region. The Communist Chinese may have been true believers in Marxism-Leninism, but they weren't stupid.

Aboard USS Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), PHIBRON 11, September 12th, 2008

Channel 6 of the Fleet Broadcast Satellite Net was carrying CNN, and the staff of the ARG had gathered in the wardroom at this absurd hour to watch the live feed from UN Headquarters halfway around the globe. The betting was about even. Half the officers figured Malaysia would back down, given the lesson that had been taught to Iraq some fifteen years earlier. Half expected immediate orders from CINCPAC to begin planning for the liberation of Brunei.

Colleen Taskins had not made Colonel in the Marine Corps by hoping for the best. She was the first female MEU (SOC) commander in the history of the Corps. She fully expected the worst, and she was about to get it on her first command cruise. The 31st MEU (SOC) and PHIBRON 11 had no orders yet to retake Brunei, but good commanders anticipate events, and she was trying to do that now. She gathered her staff for a late-night planning session. When the orders came down the chop chain from CINCPAC, her Marines and sailors would be ready.

American Embassy, Manila, the Philippines, September 14th, 2008

Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah and the colonel of the 7th Gurkhas were seated in the embassy conference room, being briefed on the plan for the liberation of Brunei from Malaysia. The young man thought it odd that others would talk so clinically in front of him about fighting for his country and his people. But Colonel Rai had counseled the young Prince that this was the way of soldiers. Although the Americans were talking about his country as if it were a chessboard, they had every intention of giving it back. This, the colonel said, was exactly what they had done back in 1991 for the A1 Sabah family in Kuwait, and they would do it now for him.

On the large-screen projector appeared a series of viewgraphs, with smaller insert screens in the corners for each of the major participants in the briefing. One of them was dedicated to the impassive face of the Crown Prince, while the others showed the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the CinC Pacific Forces, and the commander of the 31st MEU (SOC), Colonel Taskins. The Prince wondered about entrusting his country to this pixie-faced woman, but she seemed to know her business, and the others on the screen were showing her respect.

The Americans called the forthcoming operation Tropic Fury. He wondered how this one would be remembered-as a triumphant liberation, like Desert Storm, or an abysmal failure like Eagle Claw, the raid to rescue American hostages in Iran. But Tropic Fury looked like it had a chance. Colonel Rai called it a "rock soup" approach, which meant that they would start with very little and try to feed more into the effort if the initial assault worked. He was amazed that the Americans seemed to have thought about this kind of problem so thoroughly, and then remembered how they had been humiliated in the 1970s. The Americans' ability to enforce their will was based upon long experience in such affairs, and he promised himself that he would learn more than a new tennis swing from his time here in Manila.

White House Briefing Room, Washington, D.C., September 15th, 2008

"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!"

The press room was jammed to capacity for a major policy announcement on what was becoming known as the South China Sea Crisis. Along with the usual Presidential media personnel were the Secretaries of State and Defense with an easel full of briefing charts. The TV lights were running hot when the President arrived, and he moved quickly into his presentation. After a short introduction reviewing events of the last few days, he got to the point.

"…therefore, the United States, in conjunction with the United Nations, is declaring a complete military and economic embargo of Malaysia. The Government of Malaysia has until midnight tonight, Eastern Daylight Time, to clear all air and maritime traffic to and from Brunei, or the U.S. will use force to enforce the embargo. In addition, Malaysia has just five days to withdrawal from the territory of Brunei and allow the return of the Sultan, or measures will be taken to evict them. This is the only warning that will be given, and there will be no negotiations. We have not created this situation. Malaysia has. Now let them solve it, or we will do it for them. That completes my statement. The Secretaries of State and Defense will now field any questions you might have. Good day, ladies and gentlemen."

He turned and headed offstage to cries of, "Mr. President???" from a hundred reporters.

USS Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), Somewhere in the South China Sea, 1100 hours, September 16th, 2008

"Jeez, it's like a whole city of oil tanks. How are we supposed to fight in that?" the Lieutenant said. From the piers of Kuala Belait to the wellheads and pumping stations of Seria, 20 mi/32 km east, the coastal strip was a continuous landscape of immensely valuable and extremely flammable petroleum facilities, punctuated by the flames of a few flare stacks, in fields where it was too much trouble to collect the natural gas for liquefaction.

"With these, Lieutenant," Major Bill Hansen said, tossing a small but surprisingly heavy, round flat bag on the table.

"Excuse me, sir. My Marines are going into combat against guys who have live ammo, and we're supposed to shoot back with beanbags?"

"Non-lethal projectiles, Lieutenant. They're called Flexible Batons, and don't underestimate these things — they'll knock down a horse at twenty paces. And we're going to use these in the shotguns and grenade launchers until we're at least five hundred yards inland from the oil facilities."

The kid was too young to remember the fires of Kuwait. The Major had been there, and he never wanted to see anything like that hellish landscape of smoke and flame again. He patiently explained the rules of engagement for fighting in an oil field. The lieutenant would lead his company through the basics of combat-shotgun refresher training in the morning.

"Anyhow, we don't think you'll be going up against real soldiers in your LZ," the major said. "The oil company security guards are basically rent-a-cops, and we're trying to convince Shell to pull them out in any case."

"Well, sir, I've met some pretty bad-ass rent-a-cops."

"I'm sure you have, Lieutenant. I'm sure you have…." The kid had grown up on the mean streets in South LA. He had probably been shoplifting from liquor stores at an age when the major was learning to tie knots in the Cub Scouts. Now he was a Marine, one of his Marines. He was pleased to have such a man under his command.

South China Sea, 40 nm/73.2 km Northwest of Natuna Island, September 17th, 2008

The pride of the Malaysian Navy, Sri Inderapura had been launched at San Diego, California, in 1971 as the U.S. Navy's Tank Landing Ship Spartanburg County (LST-1192). Decommissioned in 1994 due to changing doctrine and force reductions, the five-thousand-ton vessel had been snapped up enthusiastically by Malaysia as an ideal platform for transporting heavy equipment from the Peninsula to remote North Borneo. Today it was carrying a battalion of Scorpion light tanks and truck-loads of fuel and ammunition to reinforce the garrison in Brunei. The modern frigate Lekiu was providing escort, her Lynx helicopter probing a few miles ahead on anti-submarine patrol. The Americans had declared an "Exclusion Zone" around Brunei, but an ancient rule of international law decreed that a blockade was only legal if it was enforced. The five hundred soldiers and sailors aboard Sri Inderapura were the test case. The riotous abundance of marine life in these tropical waters created a cracking, hissing, cloud of confusion for Lekiu's sonar operators. They knew that Chinese, Australian, American, and Indonesian submarines were lurking about, but it was almost impossible for them to pick out any definite contacts from the biological background. It would be a political disaster to attack a neutral or "friendly" sub. They could only strain to read the flickering screens, and wait.

For the sonar operators on board USS Jefferson City (SSN-759) 33 nm/60.4 km away, the throbbing diesels and whining turbines of the Malaysian ships rang out across the thermal layers and convergence zones like fire bells in the night. Eight weeks ago, Jefferson City had left Pearl Harbor on another routine peacetime patrol. A few days ago, the boat had been vectored into these shallow, treacherous waters to enforce the Brunei Exclusion Zone. And for the last six hours, the sonarmen had been tracking the enemy ships, refining the fire-control solution to enough decimal places to gladden the obsessive-compulsive heart of a nuclear submarine officer. The Weapons Control Officer spoke one last time to the Skipper. The captain replied, with a crisp, well-rehearsed and unmistakably clear order to fire.

Within a few seconds, a salvo of four RGM-84 Harpoon missiles spurted from the torpedo tubes, bored their way to the surface and emerged from their launch canisters. Even at this distance Lekiu must have heard the launch transient, but it was too late for the Captain of the Sri Inderapura to do anything except sound General Quarters and deploy damage-control teams. All he could do now was pray that the stream of 20mm slugs from the Phalanx weapon system atop his bridge would intersect the flight path of at least one Harpoon in the last fraction of a second before impact. It did. Another Harpoon fell to a Seawolf missile fired at the last minute by Lekiu. The other two Harpoons struck the LST. One penetrated into the engine room before exploding, leaving the ship dead in the water. The second struck the vehicle stowage deck, starting uncontrollable fuel and ammunition fires among the combat-loaded light tanks.

Lekiu stood by to recover survivors. By all accounts, they did a first-rate, professional job of seamanship, worthy of the traditions they had inherited from Britain's Royal Navy and their own pirate ancestors. As Sri Inderapura rolled over and settled into the muddy sediment of the seafloor, the overcrowded frigate turned back toward her home port. At almost the same time, the Australian submarine Farncomb was pumping three torpedoes into a Malaysian Ro-Ro ship, carrying vehicles and equipment for an entire brigade assigned to the defense of BSB. Malaysia would not risk any more ships to challenge the Exclusion Zone.

BSB International Airport, September 17th, 2008

Defense of an airfield against airborne assault was a typical Staff College tactical problem, and Major Dato Yasin, commanding the Malaysian Army's 9th Infantry Battalion, had graduated near the top of his class. First, block the runways to prevent surprise landings. It would inconvenience local commuters, but most of the transit buses from BSB were now parked in neat rows across every runway and taxiway of the huge airport complex. The major had wanted to block the runways with dumpsters and cargo containers filled with cement, but it might be necessary to clear the airfield rapidly to bring in supplies and reinforcements if the damned politicians could get the American blockade lifted for even a few days. Therefore, a captain in the transport section of the major's battalion now held the buses' ignition keys.

Second, establish interlocking fields of fire across the runways to decimate parachutists in the critical few minutes after they hit the ground. The major had laid out a pattern of carefully camouflaged fighting positions for fire teams and heavy machine guns, with plenty of less carefully camouflaged dummy positions. The major had served with American troops in several UN peacekeeping missions, and while he had never seen "primary" high-resolution satellite imagery, the unclassified "secondary" imagery the Americans had shared with their UN allies was impressive enough. Three times a day (the times were carefully noted on the Major's desk calendar, thanks to a nice piece of work by Malaysian Military Intelligence) American reconnaissance satellites passed overhead, noting the smallest details of his preparations.

The third principle of defense was to maintain perimeter security, and to block any move to seize the airfield from outside. Unfortunately, the perimeter of the airport was many kilometers long, and the Major had only a reinforced battalion of a thousand men. Designed and built as a conspicuous prestige display, this vast airport was really too big for the country. Still he had managed to site his heavy weapons covering anti-tank and anti-personnel minefields along the most likely approach routes.

Fourth principle: Dispose your air-defense assets for 360deg coverage and relocate them frequently. This was easy enough. The battalion's air-defense section consisted of a few man-portable Blowpipe missiles. The divisional air defense battery had emplaced a Rapier SAM launch unit and several dummy launchers on nearby hilltops, but he knew that it had little chance of surviving the first attack.

Finally, pray real hard. This was not part of the Staff College tactical solution, but as he faced west toward Mecca and knelt for the first of the five daily prayers, the major reflected that it was the most important step. He was a patriotic Malay and a good Muslim, and he had just noticed that the readout of his personal GPS receiver, programmed to indicate the exact bearing of the Holy City, was displaying gibberish. The Americans had begun "selective availability," the random garbling of the signals of the Global Positioning System. It did not matter. He knew where he was. If the Americans wanted this airfield badly enough, they would take it. Major Yasin had no illusions about his personal chances of survival. But that was in God's hands. Inshallah.

Aboard USS Springfield (SSN-761) in the Andaman Sea, September 17th, 2008

Naval tradition required waking the Captain whenever there was a significant event affecting the ship. The order over the Very Low Frequency broadcast was a simple code group of a few letters, but it meant "Come to periscope depth to receive a downlink of targeting data." That counted as a significant event, all right. Nobody in the communications section had ever seen that one, even in an exercise. It was a new capability to provide targeting data for the dozen BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles that slumbered in vertical launch tubes just behind the boat's bow section. Now, it only required a dish antenna smaller than a dinner plate poking above the waves for a few minutes, precisely aimed at a spot in the sky. From there, information could be downloaded from the Theater Mission Planning System, which provided near-real-time targeting information.

Once the download was received and confirmed, Springfield silently nosed down to a comfortable, secure depth and the Captain asked his Weapons Control Officer to bring up a visual display of target coordinates and the missile flight path. The stern, unwritten rules of their nuclear fraternity required that submariners never express surprise, but none of the officers gathered around the glowing console could avoid an involuntary gasp. In two days, they were going to take out Malaysia's big air base at Kuantan on the east coast of the Malay Peninsula. The missiles would fly right across the country, skimming over the tea plantations of the Cameron Highlands, to hit sheltered F/A-18s and MiG-29s from the unexpected landward side.

Agana Harbor, Guam, September 17th, 2008

The perfumed tropical breeze carried the scent of diesel exhaust across the bay as the four big ships raised anchor and steamed out into the Pacific. You would not call them beautiful. The great boxy hulls were piled high with containers and festooned with heavy cranes. A helicopter landing pad and an awkwardly angled folding ramp were tacked onto the stern, seemingly as an afterthought. You expect ships to be named after famous admirals or powerful politicians, but these vessels carried the names of enlisted men and junior officers who had fallen in nameless rice paddies and obscure fire bases, some four decades ago: Pfc Dewayne T. Williams, 1st Lt. Baldomero Lopez, 1st Lt. Jack Lummus, Sgt. William R. Button.

They were no greyhounds of the sea, making 17 kt/31 kph toward their rendezvous with Marines who would fly halfway across the world to link up with the weapons, vehicles, supplies, and equipment they carried. With flat black hulls and white paint topside, they were pretty ugly ships, all things considered. But in the eyes of a logistician, the ships of Maritime Prepositioning Squadron Three (MPSRON 3) were more beautiful than any China Clipper that ever rounded Cape Horn under a full spread of canvas. Just two days behind the ships of MPSRON 3 were the ships of a similar U.S. Army unit, carrying equipment for a mountain brigade. If the U.S. could secure a lodgement ashore in Brunei, there would be a division's worth of force to back it up.

Final Confirmation Briefing, USS Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), South China Sea, 2000 Hours, September 18th, 2008

Colonel Taskins plugged in her laptop and began to run though the various phases of Tropic Fury. The keys were speed and surprise. With a lot of help from the Air Force in the Philippines and on Guam and a lavish expenditure of BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles, they would blind the Malaysian forces, making them unable to sense or defend against the approach of PHIBRON 11. The risks were many. The amphibious force would approach the coast of occupied Brunei with only a handful of escorts: two Aegis guided-missile cruisers and destroyers, a single Kidd-class (DDG-993) guided-missile destroyer, a pair of modernized Spruance-class (DD-963) destroyers, and three old Oliver Hazard Perry-class (FFG-7) guided-missile frigates. PHIBRON 11 itself was tiny, with only Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), the damaged Germantown (LSD-42), and the brand-new assault ship Iwo Jima (LPD- 18). Constellation CVBG, which had been on a port visit in Australia, was steaming forward with the ships of MPSRON 3, and would join up with PHIBRON 11 the day after the invasion started (D+1). Meanwhile, fighter cover would be supplied by a reinforced detachment of AV-8B Plus Harrier IIs just flown in, as well as F-15C Eagle fighters of the 366th Wing's 390th Fighter Squadron deployed to Naval Air Station (NAS) Cubi Point near Subic Bay in the Philippines. The rest of the 366th, with support units, had deployed to the Western Pacific, and would work in relays to protect the amphibious force until the Constellation (CV-64) group arrived. The risk of attack on PHIBRON 11 was low, since it was unlikely the Malaysians would expect them so quickly. Their Navy had been driven into port, and only their Air Force was left to deal with the threat from the sea. The coming air campaign would deal with that.

Colonel Taskins continued her briefing for the assembled crowd in the officers' mess. "Folks, we're going to have to work fast, and neat. Our biggest problems are with the oil facilities on the western side of the country. This is what the Malaysians want to keep, and what we must insure that they do not destroy. North Borneo is an extremely fragile ecosystem, so a mass of burning oil wells will not do. This is why I've committed so much of the force to securing the fields. Nevertheless, we must also clear the cargo terminal in the harbor at BSB, so that follow-on forces can relieve us. Finally, we must relieve our squad at the American Embassy in BSB. General Bear tells me that he wants the gunny and his detachment taken care of, and we will do this. Is that understood?"

A chorus of nods told her that it was.

"All right then," she continued, "let's get the job done, take care of each other, be Marines, and go home safe. God bless you all."

That was all they needed to hear.

Over Kota Kinabalu, Sabah (North Borneo), 0130 Hours, September 20th, 2008

Kota Kinabalu, the primary Malaysian air base in North Borneo, was taken seriously by Tropic Fury planners. Home base for two fighter squadrons and a gaggle of maritime patrol aircraft, it had to be neutralized. Since all of the submarine-launched Tomahawk cruise missiles were committed against targets on the Malay Peninsula, this one would have to be done by aircraft. The U.S. Air Force drew the assignment.

All day and most of the night, the 366th had sparred with the Malaysians, darting in and out with fighters from Cubi Point, supported by airborne tankers. It had driven the defenders at Kota Kinabalu to exhaustion, and by 0300 local time, they were near collapse. Tropic Fury's Joint Forces Air Component Commander (JFACC), the Air Force brigadier general commanding the 366th, had planned his operations to produce this result. Make them crazy, spar with them a while, and then hit them when they're too tired to notice. Now the fakes were over, and the Sunday punch was on the way. Two F-16Cs from the 389th FS equipped with targeting pods and HARM missiles dashed in to launch their weapons at the air-traffic-control and SAM radars on the field. The two F/A-18s that lifted off were rapidly dispatched by AIM-120 AMRAAMs from a pair of escorting Eagles, and that was it. Within seconds, Kota Kinabalu was blind and helpless. Now came the heavy iron.

Six B-1B Lancers of the 34th Bombardment Squadron had flown non-stop from Anderson AFB on Guam, carrying the ordnance that would shut down Kota Kinabalu for good. The first four came in from the north, very low over the China Sea at just over Mach 1, throwing up huge twin rooster tails of spray. At 10 nm/18.3 km from the coast, all four pulled up into zoom climbs. At the apex of the maneuver, each aircraft released twenty-four JDAMS guided bombs with hardened 2,000- 1b/909.1-kg warheads. Within seconds, every aircraft shelter, runway, taxiway, fuel tank, and weapons bunker had been hit. The last two B-1s came from inland at medium altitude, dumping a total of sixty CBU-87/89 wind-corrected cluster bombs on the base, ensuring that Kota Kinabalu would be disabled for many weeks to come.

Around the rim of the South China Sea, similar events were taking place. On the Peninsula, every major fighter and transport air base was being hit by submarine-launched BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles. Aging B-52Hs from the 2nd Bombardment Wing at Barksdale AFB, Louisiana, staged out of Diego Garcia, launched waves of cruise missiles, taking out communications and command centers. The ships of PHIBRON 11 and their escorts would be effectively invisible to the Malaysians, until they came within sight of land.

25 nm/45.7 km North of the Coast of Brunei, 0200 Hours, September 20th, 2008

The LCAC slowed to a crawl and dropped its stern ramp just long enough for six rigid raider craft to slide out onto the gentle swell. Then it turned and headed back towards Iwo Jima (LPD-18), its mother ship, over the horizon, as Marines of the 31st MEU (SOC)'s Force Reconnaissance Platoon started their specially silenced outboard motors and headed inshore toward the mangrove swamps along Brunei's western border. Before sunrise, the boats would be securely hidden and the Marines would be humping through coastal jungle toward a daytime hideout on the edge of the rain forest. At the same time, a single MV-22B Osprey from the MEU (SOC)'s ACE made a low-level approach to the coast east of Brunei. Hugging the hills and dodging in and out of lush valleys, it made five touch-and-go landings, dropping off four-man reconnaissance teams. With their special observation and surveillance equipment, the teams would give Colonel Taskins continuous location and status reports on Malaysian forces in Brunei. Tomorrow night, they would all be very busy Marines.

Seria LNG Terminal, Brunei, 0000 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The Brunei-Shell Tankers motor vessel Bubuk was one of a handful of similar merchant ships that flew Brunei's gold, black, and white flag. Extraordinary ships they were. They displaced over 51,000 tons, and their specialized cargo was liquefied natural gas, stored at frigid temperatures in huge insulated spherical tanks that filled the spacious hulls. Crewed by expatriate British officers and Pakistani hands, a fleet of these vessels shuttled between Brunei and Japan. Bubuk was the only one that had been caught in port by the Malaysian takeover. The ship was not just an enormously valuable asset and a symbol of national sovereign; it was a floating bomb with the potential explosive force of a tactical nuke. Accidental or deliberate detonation of over 2,648,610 ft/75,000 m of volatile LNG would level Seria, a town of 25,000 people, along with several billion dollars worth of capital equipment. Tropic Fury planners quickly determined that Bubuk would have to be seized and secured, very carefully. This was exactly the kind of mission that U.S. Navy SEALs trained for, dreamed about, and salivated over. PHIBRON 11's SEAL detachment, embarked aboard Iwo Jima (LPD-18), drew the assignment.

Bubuk's designers had thoughtfully provided a small helipad over the stern, and this was the point of entry for the main SEAL boarding party-rappelling down a rope from a hovering CH-53. Reconnaissance had confirmed the presence of a handful of sentries on deck and around the jetty. They were taken out in just seconds after a series of stealthy bounds, followed by silenced shots from the SEALs' MP-5s. It took only a few minutes to liberate the crew from enforced captivity in the berthing areas, escort them to their stations, and get under way. Luckily, the Malaysians had allowed one engine to stay on-line to maintain the ship's electrical power, and in less than ten minutes the huge LNG ship was backing away from the pier, setting course to the north, out of harm's way.

Crossing the 12-m/22-km territorial limit, they passed a formation of fifteen AAAVs, headed ashore from Iwo Jima (LPD-18) at over 30 kt/55 kph. At the same time, a pair of AH-1W Cobra attack helicopters flew by, escorting the amphibious tractors to the beach. Ten minutes later, six LCACs from Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6) and Germantown (LSD-42) skimmed by, carrying M1A1 tanks and LAVs that would join the AAAVs, to form the armored task force that would take and hold western Brunei's oil production and storage facilities. It was less than thirty minutes to H-Hour.

Port of Muara, Brunei, 0100 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The patrol boats were going to be a problem. Captain Bill Schneider, commander of Golf Company, had obsessed about it for a week. His company of Marines had one of the toughest assignments of the entire operation. Dropped offshore in fragile, rigid raiding craft from Iwo Jima, they were to seize Muara's port facilities precisely at 0100. The sprawling cargo container port had the only wharf in the country that could accommodate the MPS ships, now standing by only 200 nm/366 km offshore. To deal with any patrol boats, he had placed Javelin teams in several of the lead boats, with orders to shoot first and count the pieces later. There was no time for such niceties as identification this evening.

Another problem was keeping the Malaysians from getting the alarm out on their arrival. The Malaysian communications net relied on almost untraceable satellite phones, registered with INMARSAT under the names of private businesses. Theoretically, the INMARSAT treaty prohibited use of its satellite channels for military operations, but the Eurocrats who controlled the system had stonewalled American attempts to impose an orbital "data embargo." International satellite telecommunications was a fiercely competitive business, and no Third World rogue state would ever trust a service provider that knuckled under to Western diplomatic pressure. But NSA technical wizards had provided the answer. One of the rigid raiders carried a compact, high-powered jammer that would disrupt cellular and satellite communications within a roughly 3-nm/5-km radius. Just enough to let the Marines establish a lodgment on the cargo wharf.

The raiders managed to get all the way to the dock before they were noticed. The two-man guard posts at the end of the pier were knocked out before they could sound an alarm. Within minutes, the Marines secured the wharf and a two-block perimeter of warehouses. They quickly set up strongpoints, anchored by a Javelin team and a light machine gun. This done, the young captain began to send out patrols aggressively, to determine whether the follow-on operation could start at midday. The patrols confirmed that the bulk of the Malaysian forces were dug in around the oil facilities and the international airport. Captain Schneider called Colonel Taskins in Bon Homme Richard's (LHD-6) LFOC, using his own secure satellite link. He recommending committing the reserve company at the dock, where resistance was minimal. This done, he settled down to defend his position and "hold until relieved."

BSB International Airport, Brunei, 0111 Hours, September 21st, 2008

Major Yasin had been wondering when the Americans would hit him, and was surprised when they had not struck the night before. Now he was receiving scattered reports of fighting at the oil production facilities and the harbor, but nothing in his area. At the request of his brigade commander, he released one company to head west to the oil fields. He was thankful that the Malaysian command had never authorized taking hostages or holding the civil population at risk. This whole affair was economic; pure and simple. This kept the battle honorable, though theft of a whole country still bothered him.

He was still contemplating the delicate balance of national policy and personal morality when eight HARMs, launched by AV-8s from Bon Homme Richard, crashed into his anti-aircraft and SAM positions, followed by a rain of GBU-29 JDAMS bombs. Before the thunder of the explosions had stilled, there was another more ominous sound. He heard the engines of heavy jet transports, growing quickly louder. As a stream of big planes passed overhead, he realized what was coming, and sounded the alarm. It did him little good. The 1st Battalion of the 325th Airborne jumped from an altitude of 500 feet/152.4 meters, putting them on the ground and into action quickly. Having been dropped with surprising precision directly on their objectives, the heavy weapons positions around the field, they took most of them within seconds of hitting the ground.

This was fortunate, as the second wave, the 325th's 2nd Battalion, was only five minutes behind. These troopers had the job of clearing the runways and taxiways so they would be ready for fly-in reinforcements. Within an hour, the whole of the 325th had flown in from their staging base on Guam, and the C-17A Globemaster IIIs were headed back for another load. For Major Yasin, his Staff College problem was over. The survivors of his unit scattered, heading south into the mountains, where they would try to regroup.

Seria Oil Production Complex, Brunei, 0120 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The AAAVs hit a beach lined with petroleum storage tanks as far as the eye could see. They immediately unloaded their cargo of Marines. The vehicles then sought cover, awaiting orders to move inland. The embarked company carried only shotguns and grenade launchers, loaded with the beanbag rounds. Malaysian forces had not done much to secure the field, mainly because if it went up in flames, they lost the very reason for taking Brunei in the first place. So they had decided to cover the east and west flanks of the field, as well as the access road running along the coast. They had never expected an enemy crazy enough to come through the oil-storage facility.

The Marines were pleased to see that British Shell had managed to evacuate its security and field personnel. Word of this had come down two days earlier, so they knew any armed men in front of them were unfriendly. A handful of Malaysian soldiers patrolling the area were captured and held in a POW pen on the beach. Somehow, few Malaysian soldiers had volunteered for guard duty amid hundreds of tanks holding millions of gallons of flammable and explosive hydrocarbons. The Marines rapidly moved south to get beyond the tank farms. When the company reached the fence, they used small charges to blow holes in the chain-link-and-razor wire, and then called for their AAAVs to come and pick them up.

By this time, the LCACs carrying M1A1 tanks and LAVs had arrived, and a complete armored task force was ready to chew up any hostile force approaching the oil fields. The task force broke into platoons with the LAVs out on patrol and the tanks in reserve. Now nobody could get within 3 mi/4.8 km of the production facilities without the approval of the USMC, or a really ugly fight. Behind them came Marine combat engineers and demolitions experts to defuse any mines or booby traps the enemy might have left behind. As expected, there were none. Unlike Saddam Hussein back in 1991, Malaysia wanted Brunei intact. The Malaysians were not interested in crazed revenge. After all, business was business!

Cargo Pier, Port of Muara, Brunei, 0600 Hours, September 21st, 2008

Colonel Taskins stood on the end of the cargo pier with her counterpart from the 325th Airborne, the American ambassador, and several other officers. They were all listening to a satellite hookup to Tropic Fury Joint Task Force headquarters at NAS Cubi Point in the Philippines. General Bear was on the other end. His gruff voice came through loud and clear.

"Ambassador, were there any problems when our team arrived?"

Ambassador Jacob Arrens's voice showed his relief over his recent liberation. But he was a professional. His first order of business was report to General Bear about conditions in BSB.

"Sir, there is absolutely no damage to public utilities or facilities; and to the best of my knowledge, there have been no atrocities or other war crimes. It appears to have been a straight grab for the oil, plus leverage to negotiate for the Spratly leases next month. By the way, the gunnery sergeant of the embassy Marine detachment wants to talk with you at your convenience. He seems to feel a need to personally report in to you."

Bear smiled at the thought and replied, "Thank you Mr. Ambassador, I'd like you to put him on as soon as I can find a minute. Now let's try to get some real work done. Okay, Colonel, lay it out."

Colonel Colleen Taskins, USMC, swallowed hard, and took a second to frame her answer. In the next two or three minutes, the fate of her Marines, the prestige of the U.S., and the future of Brunei might hinge on what she was about to say. She had done her job, but now she was being asked for an on-the-scene assessment that would decide if Tropic Fury would begin its next, critical step. She remembered her first day as a plebe at Annapolis, a beautiful spring day in 1986. When she entered the service, women could not even fly in tactical squadrons. Now she was "in the loop." On another occasion, she might have frozen or been scared. But now, training and two decades of service took over, and her voice was clear and strong.

"General, we've taken all of our objectives, and casualties have been minimal. I've got less than ten wounded, and no KIAs reported as yet. The boys from the 82nd Airborne hit their targets as planned, have made the linkup with us from the airport, and seem to be in good shape, sir. Their colonel will give you his report."

The commander of the 325th spent two minutes laying out his situation, closing with: "Sir, we've received the aerial port group that PACAF sent us, and we're ready to receive the first of your fly-in-brigade personnel. I can hold what I have, and would love to get some help to kick these bastards out of here." The paratrooper colonel's enthusiasm was infectious. It was up to Colonel Taskins now.

"Colleen, it's your call. What do you want me to do?" Taskins had never heard General Bear call her that, even when he had been one of her more terrifying instructors at Annapolis. Now he was leaving it up to her.

Her response was immediate. "General, we've got indications that the Malaysian brigade that occupied Brunei has run back over the border, to link up for a counterattack with another Malaysian brigade. Sir, send me MPSRON 3 and their fly-in brigade from the III Marine Expeditionary Force. I'll get my people out of here, and let the professionals clean this mess up." She was ready to go home with her people. In six hours, the four ships of MPSRON 3 would arrive at this pier, and begin unloading.

Prime Minister's Residence, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 0900 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The Malaysian Prime Minister was running amok, and he had not even left his office. The reports coming in from around his country showed a series of very precise and selective strikes by aircraft and missiles, as well as some kind of counter-invasion in Brunei. Like all English-educated men, he had been raised on the stories of how Field Marshal Erwin Rommel had planned to defeat the D-Day invasion in 1944 by destroying the beachhead before the end of what he called "the longest day." There were now fifteen hours left in his "longest day," and he needed to make the most of them.

He had already called in the Chief of Staff of the Malaysian Army, and had laid out his demands. The Americans had gained two footholds in Brunei. The first, in BSB itself, seemed to be quite robust. The other, around the oil-production facilities of Seria, was smaller — and it was now holding the only thing that he had cared about in the first place. The holder of those wells and facilities might still be able to negotiate with the new Sultan, who would surely follow this invasion into BSB in the next few days. Perhaps the right to negotiate the Spratly oil leases could be traded for the survival of the existing North Borneo wells. It made sense. The two Malaysian brigades were ordered to attack the Marines defending Seria and retake the oil field. It was the last chance to salvage something from this adventure.

Cargo Pier, Port of Muara, Brunei, 1300 Hours, September 21st, 2008

There had been little time for niceties like tugboats and fenders; the captains of the MPSRON 3 ships had just driven right in. Luckily, they'd caught the tides right, and were able to moor the big Ro-Ros with a minimum of scraped paint and bent plating. The stern ramps dropped, and vehicles poured out. A few hours earlier, the first elements of the III MEF's fly-in brigade from Okinawa had arrived at BSB International Airport. Riding in the same commandeered buses that had been used to block the taxiways and runways just twelve hours earlier, the first elements of the brigade were driven directly to the wharf, where they mounted up their M1A1s, AAAVs, LAVs, and HMMWVs and began to fan out across Brunei.

It normally would take eighteen hours to finish the unloading of the combat vehicles, with another three days to off-load supplies. But now everything had to be done sooner, because the Army's AWR-3 squadron would arrive in sixty hours, and they would need to use the same port facilities. When the Army mountain brigade arrived, plus an additional fly-in brigade from the 82nd Airborne Division, there would be a division-sized task force in Brunei. The concept of the operation was to rapidly build up a force big enough to overmatch anything the Malaysians could throw against the beachhead. So far it had worked.

The biggest current worry was the armored task force holding the oil facilities on the western side of the country. Colonel Taskins knew that Major Hansen's force was stretched thin. If she were the Malaysian brigade commander, that was the place that she would attack. She strode across the pier to speak with Brigadier General Mike Newman, commander of the units off-loading from the ships.

She came to the point quickly. "Mike, I think that we have a potential problem out in the oil-fields."

Looking up from his data slate, he replied, "How so, Colleen?"

"Sir, I believe that Major Hansen's task force is overstretched out at Seria. He needs some reinforcement and support."

Newman stood up, wiped his brow for a moment, and asked, "What did you have in mind?"

Her reply was again clear and rapid, "General, I want to move another company of infantry and the heavy weapons company over to the western side this afternoon. I also want to land the 155mm battery, and get some additional surveillance assets over to them. They can probably stand up to one or two counterattacks, but anything more could cause us real problems over there, sir."

"We're scheduled to relieve them tomorrow morning with a battalion landing team," Newman replied. Then he thought for a moment, remembering that this lady had never given him bad advice. "Maybe you're right." He turned to his operations officer and asked, "Harry, what's the situation on the brigade ACE moving down from Cubi Point?"

The Operations Officer referred to his own data slate, and replied, "Well, sir, we've got the first squadrons of F/A-18Ds and AV-8Bs down and dispersed, as well as some tankers. Two squadrons of MV-22Bs are on the way right now. They should be ready to start flying CAP and support missions before sundown."

"Tell you what, Colleen. Why don't you send the reinforcements over this afternoon, and I'll chop your whole ACE back to you to support them. Will that do?"

"Yes, sir!" This errand done, she headed back to Bon Homme Richard to make arrangements.

South of the Seria Oil Production Facility, Brunei, 1400 Hours, September 21st, 2008

Bill Hansen was grateful for the news he had just received from Colonel Taskins. He was already picking up enemy activity in front of his positions, but in a couple of hours, he would have twice as much force. He was also gaining powerful fire-support assets: 155mm guns, the Harriers and Cobras of the ACE, and a couple of offshore destroyers. This was what he needed to ensure his position would hold until relief arrived in the morning. Even better, his BLT commander was on the way, to take over responsibility for the beachhead.

Headquarters, Malaysian 2nd Brigade, South of Seria, Brunei, 1415 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The two Malaysian brigade commanders had met to plan their defenses when orders to attack arrived from the Prime Minister. Both of the officers were British-trained and had no doubts about their duty. But both had severe doubts about the odds of executing this attack. The 5th Brigade, which had occupied BSB, had suffered scant losses from the Americans, but it had scattered, and most of the day had been required to bring it back together. Now they were expected to retake the oil fields, drive the Marines into the sea, and do it before dark. After the noon prayer, they spread out the maps under their camouflaged command tent and set to work, trying to organize something that might succeed.

The plan was for the 5th Brigade to attack directly north towards the sea, while the fresher 2nd Brigade would swing around to the west, to hit the Americans along the coastal road. Both attacks were coordinated to hit the Marines at 1630 hours, and would continue until the sun went down into the South China Sea. Reconnaissance indicated that they were facing two dozen armored vehicles and about six hundred Marines. All told, their two Brigades had over five thousand men, with almost a hundred light tanks and personnel carriers. The problem was that they could not use their artillery. The orders from Kuala Lumpur were explicit: No artillery could be used anywhere near the production facilities. Starting an uncontrollable oil fire would defeat the whole campaign. The brigade commanders drank a final cup of tea, wished each other Allah's blessing, and made ready for the last attack of this bizarre little war.

Over Western Brunei, 1500 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The Dark Star UAV had launched several days earlier from NAS Cubi Point, and was less than halfway through its five-day mission. Equipped with a television camera, infrared scanner, and synthetic aperture radar, it had been keeping track of the two Malaysian brigades in the jungle south of Seria. The heavy canopy of foliage in the foothills blocked visual sensors, but the IR and radar picked up useful imagery. On Iwo Jima (LHD-18), the intelligence team monitoring the data stream from the Dark Star was beginning to worry. The two Malaysian brigades were showing signs of life. The reconnaissance teams inserted into Western Brunei on D-1 were sending back a steady stream of sightings. While Colonel Taskins had been limited to committing Major Hansen's small armored force to that end of the country, she had concentrated over two thirds of the MEU (SOC)'s intelligence collection assets into the area, to avoid unpleasant surprises. After some analysis, the conclusion was reported to Colonel Taskins. There would a be a two-brigade attack to overrun the Seria beachhead and recapture the oil fields, starting about 1500 hours and running until sundown. Her intuition confirmed, she began to set a trap for the enemy units.

LFOC, USS Bon Homme Richard (LHD-6), 1615 Hours, September 21st, 2008

It felt good to be back in the chair of her LFOC station. Colonel Colleen Taskins felt the rush of anticipation at the start of an operation. Game time. Her workstation showed the estimated positions of the two Malaysian brigades (intelligence flagged them as the 2nd and 5th), and she was working to set up supporting fires. Right now, the enemy was under the cover of the jungle. But to attack her Marines, they would have to come out into the open. General Newman had released almost all of her units back to her for the coming operation. In addition, he had made a call back to the JFACC at NAS Cubi Point in the Philippines, who dispatched an E-8C Joint Stars radar-surveillance plane to help her out. The J-Stars bird had a large canoe-shaped radar under its belly that could detect moving vehicles in real time, sending the data directly to a terminal located here in the LFOC. A quick look at the J-Stars display confirmed her suspicions, and she shifted units around Western Brunei like a chess master. There would be just enough time.

5th Malaysian Brigade, South of Seria, 1630 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The movement of the 5th Brigade had gone well, even though the troops were tired, having been on the move continuously since midnight. The retreat out of BSB and the airport had left them angry, eager to get back at the Americans. Now they would have their chance. The line of departure was a dirt road along the lower Belait River, about 5 mi/8 km from the coast. Their plan was to drive into a gap between the production and storage facilities, then fan out along the coast to seize the objectives. Much of the route was covered by jungle, their element. They could win.

By 1635 hours, they were moving forward, infantry leading the light tanks and armored personnel carriers. Suddenly, shell fire began to drop on their heads. At first, it was just a few 155mm rounds. Then, 5-in./127mm high-explosive rounds from ships began to fall. As the infantry went for cover, the armor pushed on ahead. The troops felt safe against air attack in the jungle. The deafening shell fire kept them from hearing the arrival of the Harriers overhead. The Harrier pilots, however, seemed to know exactly where the Malaysians were. The J-Stars had given the Harrier pilots precise GPS coordinates to drop their weapons "blind" through the jungle canopy. Each aircraft delivered six CBU-87 cluster bombs. Thousands of CEM cluster munitions fell through the top of the foliage, shredding the forward battalions of the 5th Brigade. Tanks and carriers destroyed by the hollow charges of the CEMs became small volcanoes in the darkening jungle. The guns stopped. All that was left was the sound of burning vehicles, exploding ammunition, and the low moans of the dead and dying. As the brigade commander tried to rally the remains of his unit, the desperate radio calls from his command post were identified by an ES-3A Shadow surveillance aircraft, and rapidly triangulated by several of the ships offshore. Within seconds, a fire mission was flashed over the support network, and a pair of TACMS missiles were fired by one of the offshore destroyers. These arched inland, guided by their onboard GPS systems. When the two missiles were directly over the brigade command post, they ejected a load of anti-personnel cluster munitions. In seconds, the command post and most of its vehicles were destroyed, with little left but a scar in the jungle, which would rapidly grow over. The southern prong of the Malaysian counterattack was broken.

Batang Baram River Crossing, Brunei/Malaysia Border, 1645 Hours, September 21st, 2008

The commander of the 2nd Brigade was getting increasingly frustrated trying to push across the Batang Barem River. The Americans had taken the ferry at the mouth of the river and established a series of strong-points across the river from his brigade. The firing had gotten lively, and he had already lost some vehicles to TOW and Javelin missiles. Now the Malaysians were starting to make some headway. They had forced crossings at several points along the far riverbank, and were starting to get whole platoons across. He was late at the planned start line for his attack, and communications with the 5th Brigade had been cut off. But at least his units were finally starting to move. The enemy in front of his brigade seemed to be Marines on foot, with a few tanks and LAVs. Just what his reconnaissance had told him would be there.

Mouth of the Batang Barem River, Brunei/Malaysia Border, 1700 Hours, September 21st, 2008

It had been the kind of mission that his old friends in the Army's armored cavalry would have loved. Bill Hansen had pulled his AAAVs off the line several hours earlier, handing over their defensive positions to leg Marines. He would refuel, rearm, and head back through the oil tanks to the sea. Carrying a company of Marines, his fifteen armored vehicles headed out to sea at full speed on a long, looping arc to the southwest. The sea was calm, and the fifteen vehicles were cutting through the South China Sea at over 30 kt/55 kph, trying to stay out of sight from shore-based observers. Their goal was the mouth of the Batang Barem River, where Marines from the 31st MEU (SOC) already held the north bank. It took less than an hour to reach the goal, and they barely slowed down as they entered the river.

Major Hansen and the AAAVs, moving rapidly up the Batang Barem River, were actually behind the bulk of the 2nd Malaysian Brigade. Cruising at over 20 kt/ 36 kph, they moved to crumple the Malaysians' left flank. About 3 mi/5.5 km upriver from the 2nd Brigade, the fifteen AAAVs slowed down, dropped their tracks, and retracted the bow flaps. Striking the flank of the lead battalion, they penetrated into the unit's rear area, overrunning the command post. They tore through the area and sent the battalion staff running for the hills.

At this point, Hansen broke his AAAVs into five teams, and sent them tearing through the rear of the 2nd Brigade. They shot up command vehicles and trucks with their 25mm cannons, and popped any armored vehicles that got in their way with Javelin missiles. Then, coordinating their maneuver by digital data links, they converged on the command post of the 2nd Malaysian Brigade. It had been less than an hour since they had climbed out of the Batang Barem River and started their headlong dash. They spotted the command staff of the 2nd Malaysian Brigade coming towards them with hands raised. The last effective combat unit of the Malaysian Army in Brunei had just surrendered.

BSB International Airport, 0800 Hours, September 22nd, 2008

The 7th Gurkha Rifles had flown into Brunei on chartered commercial aircraft, and were now taking control of the airport complex from the units of the 82nd Airborne Division. While it was a symbolic handover, the return of the Gurkhas meant a return of order to Brunei. Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah was arriving on one of the Royal Brunei Airlines jets that had been interned in Manila. Escorted most of the way by a pair of F-15C Eagles from the 366th at NAS Cubi Point, the Prince had insisted that the final leg be escorted only by the Marine Harriers that had done so much to liberate his country. He walked down the aircraft steps under the watchful eyes of Colonel Rai, moved to one of the grassy areas, and kneeled to kiss the soil of his liberated home.

In a few days, he would be crowned as the Sultan of Brunei. Surprisingly little damage had been done in the short liberation campaign. His half-brother, pretender to his father's throne, had fled to take up refuge in Saudi Arabia, in the same political leper colony once occupied by criminals like Idi Amin. As for himself, he would take his father's plan for the development of the South China Sea oil fields to the October UN conference. The American ambassador in Manila had returned his father's data slate, recovered from the helicopter crash several weeks earlier. It held the late Sultan's private diary, which contained his notes for the conference. There were also his father's poems and letters, which were to have been given to him at the time of a succession. He had them now, and knew how proud his father had been of him. He intended to make sure that his spirit always would be.

Prime Minister's Residence, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 1200 Hours, September 22nd, 2008

The Malaysian Prime Minister was looking into the eyes of his Army Chief of Staff, as well as those of his other ministers. "Gentlemen," he said tiredly, "our forces have failed to retake the oil facilities in Brunei, and I must declare to the people of our Federation that this government has fallen. I just hope that we can get the word out before they come through the door to announce it to us personally. I must resign, and will retire from public life." With that, he rose and left the room. The Army Chief of Staff wondered if he would even make it home. The crowds were already in the streets, and they had a ugly history of tearing politicians who disappointed them into pieces. Small ones.

PHIBRON 11, Steaming North through the South China Sea, September 30th, 2008

It had been a frantic week, getting extracted from Brunei. Along with the unavoidable ceremonies and honors, everything that had touched the soil of North Borneo had to be meticulously cleaned for a full Japanese inspection when they returned to Okinawa the following week. But right now, everyone was getting some sleep. There is little time for rest during amphibious operations, and the ships of the ARG were unusually quiet during the transit.

For Colonel Taskins, though, there were other duties. While she was being hailed as the greatest female warrior since Joan of Arc, there still were painful tasks to deal with. One of these was to write letters home. Those letters. Casualties had been light during Tropic Fury, but there still had been five dead and thirty-four wounded. The wounded had already been evacuated through Pearl Harbor to the Balboa Navy hospital in San Diego. The bodies of the other five had been flown to Dover AFB, Delaware, then to Arlington for burial. Now her duty was to write the letters to their families. In her two command tours, these were the first fatalities her unit had suffered.

The first one was the hardest. The young Marine private from Detroit had been in the team that secured the cargo pier; he had been shot down by a sniper in the streets in BSB. She had not known him personally. But this was one command responsibility that no commander could delegate or postpone. Ahead of her was a visit to the White House and Congress, probably a general's star, and maybe even a regimental or divisional command. But now, this was where she wanted to be, with her Marines. After a few more minutes, she started to type on her computer, and the words came.