Rogue Forces

CHAPTER SIX

“That’s the third call from Washington, sir,” an aide said as he hung up the phone. “The secretary of state herself this time. She sounded angry.”

President Kurzat Hirsiz waved at the aide to shut him up, then said into his telephone, “Go ahead with your report, General.”

“Yes, sir,” General Abdullah Guzlev said via secure satellite telephone. “First Division has pushed all the way to Tall Afar, northwest of Mosul. They’ve surrounded the military airbase and secured the pipeline and the pumping station at Avghani. The Iraqis can still disrupt flow from the Baba Gurgur fields to the east and trans-shipped oil from the southern fields, but the oil from the Qualeh field is secure.”

Amazing, Hirsiz thought. The thrust into Iraq was going better than expected. “The Iraqi army did not secure the pipeline or the pumping station?” he asked.

“No, sir. Private security companies only, and they did not resist.”

That was truly great news; he had expected the Iraqis to vigorously defend the pipeline and infrastructure. The oil flowing through the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline represented 40 percent of Iraq’s oil revenue. An interesting development indeed…“Very well, General. Your progress has been amazing. Well done. Continue.”

“Thank you, sir,” Guzlev went on. “Second Division has pushed all the way to Mosul and has captured Qayyarah South Airport. Our air forces bombed the runway at Nahla, the Iraqi military air base north of the city near Tall Kayf, and we have that airfield surrounded. We are presently landing transport and armed patrol aircraft at Qayyarah South Airport.”

“Any resistance from the Iraqi or Americans at Nahla?”

“The Americans are not resisting; however, we are not in contact with any Iraqi forces based there.”

“Not in contact?”

“They seem to have left the base and retreated to Mosul or Kirkuk,” Guzlev said. “We are on guard in case they pop up suddenly, but we believe they simply took off their uniforms and are hiding in the population.”

“That could be a problem later on, but hopefully they’ll stay hidden for a while. And General Ozek’s forces?”

“The two Jandarma divisions operating in the east have encountered heavier resistance than the other two divisions, mostly facing peshmerga guerrillas,” Guzlev replied, “but they have surrounded Irbil Northwest Airport.”

“We were expecting resistance from the peshmerga—that’s why we decided to send two Jandarma divisions east, with the other three divisions ready to move in if they’re needed,” Hirsiz said. The peshmerga, Kurdish for “those who face death,” began as Kurdish freedom fighters battling Saddam Hussein’s army against his brutal attempts to displace the Kurdish minority from the oil-rich areas of northeastern Iraq, which the Kurds claim as part of a future state of Kurdistan. After the U.S. invasion of Iraq, the peshmerga fought Saddam’s army side by side with U.S. forces. Thanks to years of American training and assistance, the peshmerga became an effective fighting force and the defenders of the Kurdish Regional Government.

“We are still outnumbered if what our intelligence says is the full strength of the peshmerga,” Guzlev went on. “We should advance two Jandarma divisions south to reinforce the supply lines, and leave the last in reserve. If General Ozek’s forces solidly hold and control Highways Three and Four in and out of Irbil, plus keep the airport approaches clear, we’ll have a solid line of defense from Irbil to Tall Afar, and we can force the peshmerga up into the mountains east of Irbil.”

“Then I will give the order,” Hirsiz said. “Meanwhile, I’ll be negotiating a cease-fire with the Iraqis, Kurds, and Americans. Eventually we’ll come to some sort of agreement for a buffer zone, including multinational patrols and monitoring, and we will eventually withdraw…”

“And as we withdraw, we’ll root out every last stinking PKK training base we find,” Guzlev said.

“Absolutely,” Hirsiz said. “Do you have a casualty report?”

“Casualties have been minimal, sir, except General Ozek reports about two percent losses so far as he moves through the heavily Kurdish areas,” Guzlev said. With Jandarma divisions equaling about twenty thousand men each, losing four hundred men in one day was serious stuff; those three reserve Jandarma divisions were going to be sorely needed. “We are having no difficulties evacuating the dead and wounded back to Turkey. Aircraft losses have been minimal as well. The worst were the loss of a transport plane that was departing Irbil to bring back more supplies—it may have been downed by enemy fire, we’re not sure yet. A heavy transport helicopter was lost due to mechanical problems, and an RF-4E electronic jamming aircraft was shot down by an American reconnaissance aircraft.”

“American reconnaissance aircraft? How can a reconnaissance aircraft shoot down one of ours?”

“Unknown, sir. The reconnaissance systems officer reported that they were under attack by what he described as heavy levels of radiation.”

“Radiation?”

“That’s what he said, moments before he lost communications with the pilot. The pilot and the aircraft were lost.”

“What in hell are the Americans firing radiation weapons at us for?” Hirsiz thundered.

“We have been careful to minimize casualties, military and civilian, on both sides, sir,” Guzlev said. “The division commanders are under strict orders to tell their men that they may fire only when fired upon, except for known or suspected PKK terrorists they discover.”

“What sort of forces are you encountering, General? What units are you engaging?”

“We are encountering light resistance throughout the entire region, sir,” Guzlev reported. “The Americans have not engaged us. They have set up strong defensive positions inside their bases and continue unmanned aerial reconnaissance, but they are not attacking, and we do not expect them to do so.”

“That is correct, General—be sure your divisions remember that,” Hirsiz warned. “We have no indications whatsoever that the Americans will attack us as long as we don’t attack them. Don’t give them a reason to come out and fight.”

“I brief my generals every hour, sir. They know,” Guzlev acknowledged. “The Iraqi army seems to have disappeared, probably fled toward Baghdad or simply took off their uniforms, hid their weapons, and will wait it out, like they did when the Americans invaded in 2003.”

“I don’t expect them to fight either, General; they don’t like the PKK any more than we do. Let them hide.”

“The PKK terrorists are on the run, trying to make it to larger towns and cities,” Guzlev went on. “It will take hard work to dig them out, but we’ll do it. We’re hoping to keep them in the countryside so they don’t escape to Irbil or Kirkuk and blend in with the population. The peshmerga remain a significant threat, but they are not engaging us as of yet—they are fierce defenders of their towns, but they are not attacking us. That may change.”

“A diplomatic solution will be necessary with the Kurdish Regional Government to find some way to allow us to look for the PKK terrorists without battling peshmerga,” Hirsiz said. “Washington has been calling all night demanding an explanation. I think now is time to talk to them. Press on, General. Pass on to your men: Job well done. Good luck, and good hunting.”

“Excellent news indeed, sir,” General Orhan Zahin, secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council, said. “Better than anticipated. No one is opposing us except for a few peshmerga fighters and PKK terrorists.” Hirsiz nodded but said nothing—he appeared to be lost in thought. “Don’t you agree, sir?”

“Of course,” Hirsiz said. “We expected to get bogged down in the hills, but without organized opposition, northern Iraq is wide open…especially Irbil, the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government, who refuse to crack down on the PKK.”

“What are you saying, sir?”

“I’m saying that if we squeeze Irbil, we can force the KRG to help us hunt down the PKK terrorists,” Hirsiz said. “Everyone knows companies owned by the KRG cabinet and senior leadership funnel money to the PKK. Maybe it’s time to make them pay a price. Destroy those businesses, close down the KTC pipeline, close the border crossings and airspace to anything or anyone associated with the KRG, and they’ll be begging to help us.” He turned to Minister of Defense Cizek. “Get a list of targets in Irbil that will specifically target KRG resources, and work with General Guzlev to add them to his target list.”

“We should be careful about mission creep, sir,” Cizek said. “Our goal is to set up a buffer zone in northern Iraq and wipe it clean of PKK. Attacking Irbil is far outside that objective.”

“It is another way to destroy the PKK—by having the Iraqis help us,” Hirsiz said. “If they want to see an end to our attacks and our occupation, they’ll help us eradicate the PKK, as they should have been doing years ago.” Cizek still looked concerned, but he nodded and made notes to himself. “Very good. Now I’ll go talk with Joseph Gardner and see if he has any desire to help us.”

A phone right beside Chief of Staff Walter Kordus’s elbow beeped, and he picked it up immediately. “Call from Ankara, sir,” he said. “Signals says it’s from the president himself.”

“Finally,” President Joseph Gardner said. He was behind his desk, watching the cable news reports about the invasion of Iraq with his national security adviser, Conrad Carlyle, Secretary of Defense Miller Turner, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, U.S. Marine Corps general Taylor J. Bain. On a video teleconference feed were Vice President Kenneth Phoenix at Allied Air Base Nahla in Iraq, and Secretary of State Stacy Barbeau from Aviano Air Base in Italy, where she had diverted instead of continuing on to Iraq from Washington. “Put him on.” He thought for a moment, then shook his hand. “No, wait, I’ll make him wait and see how he likes it. Tell him to hold for me and I’ll speak with him in a minute.”

Gardner turned to the others in the Oval Office. “Okay, we’ve been watching the shit flying all day now. What do we know? What do we tell whoever’s at the other end of that call?”

“It’s plain that the Turks are going after the PKK hideouts and training camps and are being very careful not to cause any Iraqi or American casualties,” National Security Adviser Conrad Carlyle said. “If that’s truly the case, we tell our guys to hunker down and stay out of it. Then we tell the Turks to back off in case there are unintended consequences.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Gardner said. “They’re driving pretty deep into Iraq, aren’t they, a lot farther than their usual cross-border raids?” Nods all around the Oval Office and on the video teleconference monitors. “Then the question is: Are they going to stay?”

“They’ll stay long enough to slaughter any PKK rebels they find, and then I’m sure they’ll leave,” Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau said via her secure video teleconference link from Italy. “We should call for United Nations monitoring as soon as possible in case Kurzat Hirsiz is no longer in charge and the Turkish army wants to go on a rampage.”

“Not on my watch they won’t, Stacy,” Gardner said. “I won’t tolerate a bloodbath while American soldiers are stationed there and the Iraqis aren’t powerful enough to defend their own people. They can crack down on their own Kurdish rebels in their own country if they want, but they’re not going to commit genocide with American GIs as spectators.”

“I think they’ll agree to international monitors, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau said, “but they’ll want a buffer zone created in northern Iraq, with round-the-clock international surveillance, looking for PKK activity.”

“I can live with that, too,” Gardner said. “Okay, Walter, put Hirsiz on the line.”

A few moments later: “Mr. President, good afternoon to you, this is President Hirsiz. Thank you for speaking with me, sir.”

“I’m very glad to see that you’re all right,” Gardner said. “We haven’t heard from you since the announcement of a national emergency. You didn’t return any of our calls.”

“I apologize, sir, but as you can see, things are very serious here and I’ve been engaged almost continuously. I assume this call is in regards to our current antiterrorist operations in Iraq?”

Gardner’s eyes bulged in disbelief by what he just heard. “No, sir, I’m talking about your invasion of Iraq!” Gardner exploded. “Because if this was just an antiterrorist operation, I’m sure you would have told us when, where, and how you were going to initiate it, is that not correct?”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, that tone of voice is not necessary,” Hirsiz said. “If I may remind you, sir, it was a lack of respect such as this that caused this ill will between our countries in the first place.”

“And may I remind you, Mr. President,” Gardner retorted, “that Turkish warplanes are bombing bases and facilities manned by Americans? May I also remind you that I sent Vice President Phoenix and Secretary of State Barbeau on a diplomatic mission to Iraq to meet with their counterparts, and Turkey used that meeting as a smoke screen to attack positions inside Iraq, placing the vice president in mortal danger? The vice president is an emissary of the United States of America and my personal representative. You have no right to initiate military action when at the same time you…”

“I need no reminding from you, sir!” Hirsiz interrupted. “I need no lectures on when Turkey may initiate military actions against terrorists threatening our people! The Republic of Turkey will do whatever is necessary to protect our land and our people! It is America and Iraq who must help us defeat the terrorists! If you do nothing, then we must act alone.”

“I’m not trying to lecture anyone, sir,” Gardner said, forcing his anger back down into his chest, “and I agree that Turkey or any nation may take whatever steps are necessary to protect its self-interests, even preemptive military action. All I’m asking, sir, is that you inform Washington first and ask for advice and assistance. That’s what allies do, am I correct?”

“Mr. President, we had every intention of notifying you before the commencement of hostilities, if time allowed,” Hirsiz said. Gardner rolled his eyes in disbelief but said nothing. “But it did not.”

“That’s the same thing you said before the attack on the border, which resulted in over a dozen American casualties,” the president interjected. “Apparently you don’t feel the need to consult with Washington on a timely basis.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but what I tell you is true—we are under enormous pressure to act before any more loss of life occurs,” Hirsiz said. “But we have taken extraordinary care this time to minimize noncombatant casualties. I have ordered my minister of defense to inform and constantly remind our division commanders that only PKK terrorists are to be targeted. We have taken extraordinary steps to minimize noncombatant casualties.”

“And I acknowledge those efforts,” Gardner said. “To my knowledge, no Americans or Iraqis have been killed. But there have been injuries and substantial loss and damage to equipment and facilities. If the hostilities continue, there could be bloodshed.”

“Yet to my knowledge, sir, there has already been substantial, deliberate, and egregious Turkish loss of equipment—and at least one death, caused by American forces.”

“What? Americans?” Gardner stared at his national security adviser and secretary of defense in surprise. “I’ve been assured that none of our combat units engaged with anyone, let alone Turkish forces. There must be a mistake.”

“Then you deny that an American flying-wing reconnaissance aircraft was orbiting over northern Iraq, with orders to use its radiation weapons to shoot down a Turkish combat support aircraft?”

“Flying-wing…reconnaissance aircraft…radiation weapons…?”

“We have observed this aircraft flying near the Turkish border for many days now, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Although it resembles an American stealth bomber, our intelligence analysts have assured our government that it was an unarmed reconnaissance aircraft owned and operated by a private contractor for the United States Army. The air attaché at the American embassy in Ankara acknowledged this to be true.

“Apparently our analysts were wrong, and your ambassador lied to us, because the crew of a combat support aircraft reported being under attack by that very same aircraft,” Hirsiz went on. “The surviving crewmember reported that the so-called reconnaissance aircraft was in fact firing what he described as a radiation weapon; he reported feeling intense heat severe enough that it killed the pilot and destroyed the aircraft. Do you deny such an aircraft was operating at the time of our actions over Iraq, Mr. President?”

The president shook his head in confusion. “Mr. President, I don’t know anything about such an aircraft, and I certainly did not order any American aircraft to attack anyone, let alone an allied aircraft,” he said. “I’ll find out who it was and make sure that no such actions happen again.”

“That is little consolation to the family of the pilot who died as a result from the attack, sir.”

“I’ll find the ones responsible, Mr. President, and if it was a deliberate attack they will be punished, that I promise,” Gardner said. “What are Turkey’s intentions in Iraq, sir? When are you going to begin withdrawing troops?”

“Withdrawing? Did you say ‘withdrawing,’ sir?” Hirsiz asked in a high-pitched, theatrically incredulous voice. “Turkey is not withdrawing, sir. We are not withdrawing until every last PKK terrorist is dead or captured. We did not begin this operation and risk thousands of lives and billions in valuable equipment simply to turn around before the job is done.”

“Sir, Turkey has committed an act of armed aggression against a peaceful country,” Gardner said. “You may be hunting down terrorists, sir, but you’re doing it on foreign soil, terrorizing innocent civilians, and damaging a sovereign nation’s property. That cannot be allowed.”

“And how are our actions different from America attacking Iraq, Mr. President?” Hirsiz asked. “That is your doctrine, is it not—hunt down and destroy terrorists wherever they may be, at a time of your own choosing? We are doing the very same.”

Joseph Gardner hesitated. The bastard was right, he thought. How could I argue against Turkey invading Iraq when that’s exactly what the United States did in 2003? “Um…Mr. President, you know it’s not the same…”

“It is the very same, sir. We have a right to protect ourselves, just as America does.”

Fortunately for the president, Walter Kordus held up a Post-it note with the letters U.N. scribbled on it. Gardner nodded, relieved, then spoke, “The difference, sir, is the United States received authorization to invade Iraq by the United Nations Security Council. You did not seek such approval.”

“We have sought that approval for many years, sir,” Hirsiz said, “but it was always denied. The best you or the United Nations could ever do was declare the PKK a terrorist organization. We were authorized to call them names, but they could kill Turks with impunity. We have decided to take matters into our own hands.”

“America was also offered assistance by many other nations in the effort to hunt down al-Qaeda terrorists and jihadists,” Gardner said. “This sudden attack looks more like an invasion than an antiterrorist operation.”

“Are you offering assistance, Mr. President?” Hirsiz asked. “That would certainly speed up our progress and ensure a more rapid retraction.”

“Mr. President, the United States has often offered assistance in hunting down PKK terrorists many times in the past,” Gardner said. “We have provided intelligence, weapons, and financial resources for years. But the intent was to avoid open warfare and violations of sovereign borders—to prevent exactly what has occurred, and what other calamities might happen if hostilities do not end.”

“We are grateful for the assistance you have provided, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Turkey will always be thankful. But it was simply not enough to stop the terrorists from attacking. It is not America’s fault. We have been forced to act by the ruthless PKK. Any assistance you can provide in the future would be most helpful and gratefully accepted, of course.”

“We’d be happy to help you hunt down the terrorists, Mr. President,” Gardner said, “but as a sign of good faith, we would ask if United Nations peacekeeping forces could substitute for Turkish ground troops, and if you could allow international monitors and law enforcement officers to patrol the Turkey-Iraq border.”

“I am sorry, Mr. President, but that would not do at all,” Hirsiz said. “It is our belief that the United Nations is an ineffectual force and has not made any progress in any area of the world where its peacekeepers are deployed. In fact, it is our opinion that such a force would be biased against Turkey and in favor of the Kurdish minority, and that the hunt for PKK terrorists would be shuffled into the background. No, sir, Turkey will not accept peacekeepers at this time.”

“I trust you and Prime Minister Akas will be willing to negotiate this matter, sir? By the way, I expected to hear from the prime minister. Is she well? We haven’t seen or heard of her.”

“I think you will find the prime minister to be just as firm on this issue as I, Mr. President,” Hirsiz said flatly, ignoring Gardner’s questions. “International observers would only complicate the security, cultural, ethnic, and religious tensions in the region. I’m afraid there is no room for compromise at this time.”

“I see. I also want to discuss Vice President Phoenix,” Gardner went on. “He was forced to evade Turkish warplanes and ground forces as he flew into Irbil for our scheduled negotiations.”

“That is an unfortunate occurrence, sir. I assure you, no efforts were made to attack any aircraft whatsoever. As far as we know, the PKK does not have an air force. Where is the vice president now, sir?”

“The vice president is a virtual prisoner of the Turkish army and air force at the Iraqi air base at Tall Kayf, north of Mosul,” Gardner said, after carefully considering whether or not he should reveal this information. “He is surrounded by Turkish troops and buzzed repeatedly by Turkish warplanes. He definitely fears for his safety. I demand that all Turkish forces evacuate the area and allow the vice president to leave the base and proceed to his next destination.”

“His next destination?”

“His original destination: Irbil,” Gardner said. “The vice president still has a mission: to negotiate a settlement between Iraq, America, the Kurdish Regional Government, and Turkey, to suppress the PKK and restore peace, security, and order to the border region.”

“Lofty goals, that,” Hirsiz said dismissively. There was a considerable pause at the other end of the line; then: “Mr. President, I am sorry, but the security situation is completely unstable and uncertain throughout northern Iraq and southern Turkey. No one can guarantee the vice president’s safety in the cities, especially ones controlled by the Kurds and infested with the PKK.”

“So you will keep the vice president imprisoned in Iraq? Is that what you’re telling me, sir?”

“Of course not, sir,” Hirsiz replied. “I am only thinking of the vice president’s safety, nothing else.” There was another long pause; then: “I will pledge, upon my honor, that I will see to it that the vice president is safely escorted to the Turkish border under heavy guard, with full cooperation with your Secret Service protection detail, and from there he can be escorted to the American air base at Incirlik for a return to the United States. I will also pledge that Turkish forces will not interfere in the least if the vice president decides to travel to Baghdad. But since Turkish forces have not traveled farther south than Mosul, I cannot guarantee his safety. I am afraid traveling right now is simply not advised.”

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Hirsiz—you’re telling me that you are going to dictate conditions, routes, and procedures by which the vice president of the United States of America can move about in a sovereign country not your own?” Gardner asked incredulously. “Let me advise you, sir: I’m going to dispatch the vice president or anyone else when I want, anywhere I want in Iraq or any other friendly nation, and by God, if I see or have any indication whatsoever that anyone does so much as gesture in his direction with the merest thought of harm, I will see to it that he is pounded ten feet into the ground. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

“Crude and boisterous as always, but I understand,” Hirsiz said in a completely neutral tone of voice.

“See that you do, sir,” President Gardner said. “And when can I expect to speak directly to the prime minister regarding the state of emergency and opening a dialogue to address the withdrawal of forces from Iraq?”

“Prime Minister Akas is understandably very busy, sir, but I will relay your request to her immediately. I thank you for speaking with me, sir. Please keep us in your prayers, and until we speak again—”

“Tell me, Mr. Hirsiz,” Gardner interrupted, “is Prime Minister Akas still alive, and if so, is she still in power? Are the generals calling the shots in Turkey now, and are you the president in name only?”

Another long pause; then: “I am offended by your insinuations, sir,” Hirsiz said. “I have nothing more to say to you. Good day.” And the connection was terminated.

“Bastard,” Gardner breathed as he hung up the phone. “Who does he think he’s talking to?” He paused, fulminating with red-hot intensity, then nearly shouted, “And what the hell was that about a stealth bomber flying over Turkey with a damned radiation weapon? What was that about?”

“There’s only one outfit that flies a reconnaissance aircraft like Hirsiz described: Scion Aviation International,” Secretary of Defense Miller Turner said.

“You mean…McLanahan’s outfit?” Gardner asked incredulously. “He brought radiation weapons into Iraq?”

“I don’t know anything about radiation weapons. He certainly wasn’t authorized to bring any offensive weapons into Iraq or anywhere else,” Turner said. “But if anyone’s got high-tech weapons like that, it’s McLanahan.”

“I’ve had it with him—pull him out, and do it today.” Gardner jabbed a finger at his secretary of defense like a dagger. “Get his ass out of Iraq and bring him stateside now. I want his contracts canceled and all funds due him and his company frozen until I have Justice investigate him and his activities.” Turner nodded and picked up a phone. “Maybe we’ll get more cooperation from the Turks if we start investigating McLanahan.”

“McLanahan briefed me on what happened, Mr. President,” Vice President Phoenix said from Allied Air Base Nahla. “The Turks were jamming the hell out of the base—they shut down all communications and sensor datalinks. McLanahan used a defensive laser on board his unmanned reconnaissance plane to…”

“A defensive laser? What in hell is that? He shot the Turkish jet with a laser…?”

“Only to get the Turkish jet to shut off the jamming,” Phoenix said. “He didn’t know he was going to kill the pilot. The Turks ended up shooting the recon plane down.”

“Serves him right,” the president said. “He should’ve known the laser would’ve hurt the pilot; he tested the thing, didn’t he? He’s still responsible for the pilot’s death. I want him brought in and indicted.”

“If he hadn’t shut that jamming down, I could’ve flown right into the middle of the Turkish attack,” Phoenix said. “He acted responsibly against an unknown attack in a theater of combat, doing exactly what he was contracted to do.”

“He wasn’t contracted to kill people, Ken,” the president said. “No Americans have the responsibility to kill anyone in Iraq, let alone an ally. We’re supposed to be there to assist and train, not shoot lasers at people. McLanahan did what he always does: he uses whatever forces he commands to solve the problem, no matter what happens or who he kills or injures doing it. If you want to testify on his behalf, Ken, be my guest, but he will answer for what he did.” Phoenix had no response. “Miller, how soon can you get McLanahan stateside?”

“Depending on what the Turks do, I can send a plane up from Baghdad and get him tonight.”

“Do it.”

Turner nodded.

“Mr. President, Colonel Wilhelm here at Nahla is keeping all of his forces inside the base,” Vice President Phoenix said. “There is a company-size force of Turks outside the base here, but everyone is keeping a low profile. We’ve even given the Turks food and water.”

“That just shows me that the Turks don’t want a fight, unless you’re a card-carrying member of the PKK,” the president said. “What is the Iraqi army doing? Keeping a low profile too, I hope?”

“Very low, Mr. President—in fact, they evacuated the base and are nowhere to be found.”

“What?”

“They simply got up and walked off the base,” Phoenix said. “Everyone is gone, and they destroyed whatever they couldn’t carry.”

“Why? Why in the world would they do that?” the president thundered. “Why in hell are we over there helping them when they cut and run at the first sign of trouble?”

“Mr. President, I’d like to go to Baghdad and speak with the Iraqi president and prime minister,” Vice President Phoenix said. “I want to find out what’s going on.”

“Jesus, Ken, haven’t you had enough action for a while?”

“I guess not, Mr. President,” Phoenix said, smiling. “Besides, I like flying in that tilt-rotor contraption. The Marines don’t fly slow and leisurely unless they really have to.”

“If you’re serious about going, Ken, get together with the Army commander out there and your Secret Service detail and figure out the safest way to get you to Baghdad,” the president said. “I don’t like having you in the middle of an invasion, but having you right there in-country might help things along. I don’t trust the Turks as far as I can throw them, so we’ll rely on our own guys to get you safely to the capital. I just hope the Iraqis aren’t flaking out on us, too, or it could get ugly out there. Keep me posted, and be careful.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Stacy, I’d like to send you to Ankara or Istanbul as soon as possible, but we may have to wait until things cool down,” the president said. “How about meeting with the NATO alliance in Brussels—together we should be able to put enough pressure on Turkey to get them to pull out.”

“Good idea, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “I’ll get it set up right away.”

“Good. Tell the Turkish prime minister that we’ll have a suspect on the shoot-down of their reconnaissance plane in custody within hours; that should make them a little more pleasant.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, and signed off.

“Miller, let me know when McLanahan’s on his way back to the States so I can inform Ankara,” the president said. “I’d like to offer them a few carrots before I have to start raising sticks, and McLanahan in custody should be a sizable carrot. Thanks, everyone.”

“I said, it’s too dangerous, Masters,” Jack Wilhelm said irritably. He was at his console in the Tank studying what little information was coming in to him. “The Turks have grounded all aerial reconnaissance and restricted troop movements in and around the base. Things are too tense right now. If we try to go outside to the crash site, they might get spooked. Besides, you still don’t look a hundred percent.”

“Colonel, there’s a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of equipment sitting in a pile out there less than two miles outside the fence,” Jon Masters argued. “You can’t let the Turks and the locals just walk off with it. Some of that stuff is classified.”

“It’s a crash site, Masters. It’s been destroyed—”

“Colonel, my planes are not flimsy aluminum—they’re composites. They’re a hundred times stronger than steel. The Loser was flying slow and was on approach to land. There’s a good chance some of the systems and avionics survived the impact. I’ve got to get out there to recover what I can before—”

“Masters, my orders are no one goes outside the base, and that includes you,” Wilhelm insisted. “The Turkish army is in control out there, and I’m not going to risk a confrontation with them. They let food, water, and supplies come in and out—that’s good enough for me right now. We’re trying to open negotiations with the Turks for access to the wreckage, but they’re pissed because you used it to shoot down one of their planes. So stop bugging me until they cool down and start talking to us, okay?”

“Every box they take out of that crash site costs me money, Colonel.”

“I’m sorry about your money, Doc, but I really don’t give a shit right now,” Wilhelm said. “I know you were helping me out by shooting down that recon plane, but we have no options right now.”

“Then I’ll go out there and take my chances with the Turks.”

“Doc, I’m sure the Turks would love to have a little chat with you right now,” Wilhelm said. “They’d have your lasers, all the supersecret black boxes, the guy who designed and built them all, and the one who used them to shoot down one of their planes and kill one of their soldiers. Unless you like the taste of truth serum or enjoy having your fingernails pulled out with pliers, I think you’re safer inside the wire.” That made Jon Masters gulp, turn whiter than he looked before, and fall silent. “I thought not. I think we’re damned lucky they’re not demanding we turn you over to them right now. I’m sorry about your stuff, Doc, but you stay put.” He watched Jon turn away and couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

“I think you scared him, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was standing with security director Kris Thompson beside Wilhelm’s console. “Do you really think the Turks would torture him?”

“How the hell do I know, General?” Wilhelm growled. “I just wanted him to stop harping on me until I get things sorted out and until someone in Washington or Ankara calls a stop to all this. But shooting down that Phantom is not going to sit well with the Turks.” He studied one of the data screens with updated air traffic information. “You still bringing in one of your planes tonight? Haven’t you lost enough planes already?”

“It’s not an XC-57, just a regular 767 freighter,” Patrick said. “It’s already been cleared and manifested by the Turks.”

“Why bother? You know your contract is going to get canceled, don’t you? Shooting down that Phantom—with a laser no less—is going to land you in hot water. You’ll be lucky if the Turks don’t intercept it and force it to land in Turkey.”

“Then I’ll still need a freighter to start taking my stuff out of the country now that they shot down the Loser.”

“It’s your decision, General,” Wilhelm said, shaking his head. “I think the Turks okayed the flight just so they can intercept it, force it to land in Turkey, seize whatever stuff you’re bringing into Iraq, and hold the cargo and your plane hostage until you pay reparations for the Phantom and probably stand trial for murder. But it’s your call.” Mark Weatherly stepped over to Wilhelm and handed him a note. He read it, shook his head wearily, then handed it back. “Bad news, General. I’ve been ordered to detain you in your quarters until you can be flown back to the States. Your contract has been canceled by the Pentagon, effective immediately.”

“The Phantom incident?”

“Doesn’t say, but I’m sure that’s why,” Wilhelm said. “From what we’ve seen, the Turks are being ultracareful not to attack us or the non-PKK Iraqis. That restraint may slip now that they’ve lost a jet and a pilot, and Washington needs to do something to show we don’t want to get into a shooting match with the Turks.”

“And I’m the guy.”

“High-profile retired bomber commander turned mercenary. Hate to say it, General, but you’re the poster child for retribution.”

“I’m sure President Gardner was all too happy to serve you up, too, Muck,” Jon Masters added.

“Sorry, General.” Wilhelm turned to Kris Thompson. “Thompson, mind taking the general to his CHU? I don’t even know if you’ve ever slept in it before—I’ve always found you out in the hangar or in your plane—but that’s where I’ve got to keep you for now.”

“Mind if I go with him, Colonel?” Jon asked.

Wilhelm waved a hand at him and turned back to his console, and the group left for the housing area.

The housing area—CHUville—seemed almost deserted. No one said anything as they walked down the rows of steel containers until they located the one reserved for Patrick. “I’ll have your stuff brought out here, sir,” Kris said. He opened the door, turned on a light, and inspected the room. There was an inner room to keep out blowing sand and dust. Inside was a small galley, desk and chair, guest chairs, closet, storage shelves, and a sofa bed. “We have plenty of room, so you have both CHUs and the wet-CHU in the middle to yourself. We set up the second CHU as a conference room for you and your guys; this side is your private space. You have full Internet access, telephone, TV, the works. If there’s anything else you need, or if you want a different CHU closer to the flight line, just call.”

“Thanks, Kris. This’ll be okay.”

“Again, Patrick, I’m sorry this is going down like this,” Kris said. “You were trying to get our comms and datalinks back, not kill the guy.”

“It’s the politics kicking in, Kris,” Patrick said. “The Turks feel totally justified in what they’re doing, and they don’t know or care why we’d fire on their plane. The White House doesn’t want this thing to blow out of control—”

“Not to mention the president would love to stick it to you, Muck,” Jon Masters added.

“Nothing we can do about it here,” Patrick said. “I’ll do my fighting once I get stateside. Don’t worry about me.”

Thompson nodded. “No one has said thank you for what you did, but I will. Thank you, sir,” he said, then departed.

“Great, just great,” Jon Masters said after Thompson had left the CHU. “The Turks are going to rummage through the Loser’s wreckage, and you’re stuck in here under house arrest with the president of the United States ready to serve you up to the Turks as a berserker warmonger. Swell. What do we do now?”

“I have no idea,” Patrick said. “I’ll get in touch with the boss and let him know what’s happening—if he doesn’t already know.”

“I’ll bet Pres—” Patrick suddenly raised his hand, which startled Jon. “What?” Jon asked. “Why did you…?” Patrick put a finger to his lips and pointed around the room. Jon knotted his eyebrows in confusion. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Patrick found a pencil and paper in the desk and wrote, I think the CHUs are bugged.

“What?” Jon exclaimed.

Patrick rolled his eyes again, then wrote, No mention of the pres. Casual talk only.

“Okay,” Jon said, not really sure if he believed it but willing to play along. He wrote, Off the bug?

Only video if they have it, Patrick replied in writing. Jon nodded. Patrick wrote, Tell Whack and Charlie on the freighter and the rest of the team in Las Vegas what happened to the Loser…and to me.

Jon nodded, gave Patrick a sorrowful expression, then said, “Okay, Muck, I’ll head back to the hangar, send the messages, check on the first Loser, and then turn in. This has been a really suck day. Buzz me if you need anything.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Jack Wilhelm punched the button on his console and slid off his headset after listening to the recording several minutes after Kris Thompson returned from CHUville. “I didn’t hear much of anything, Thompson,” he said.

“They started being very cautious about what they were saying, Colonel,” Kris Thompson replied. “I think they suspect they’re being bugged.”

“The guy’s smart, that’s for sure,” Wilhelm said. “Can we confiscate the paper they’re writing messages on before they destroy them?”

“Sure—if we want them to find out they’re being bugged.”

“Wish you had set up a video bug in there instead of just audio. All this high-tech gear around here and you couldn’t set up one simple baby-crib camera?” Thompson said nothing—he could’ve easily set up a video bug, but he was uncomfortable enough installing an audio bug in the general’s CHU; a video bug was too much. “He mentioned the ‘boss,’ and then Masters sounded like he was going to say ‘the president,’” Wilhelm commented. “President of what?”

“The company, I assume,” Thompson said. He paused, then added uncomfortably, “I don’t feel right bugging the general’s CHU, Colonel.”

“I got the order straight from the Army chief of staff, who got it through the attorney general and the secretary of defense—gather information on McLanahan’s activities, including eavesdropping and wiretaps, until the FBI and State Department take over,” Wilhelm said. “They’re gunning for this guy, that’s for sure. The president wants his head on a platter. They ordered his freighter searched and every piece of equipment on board cross-checked with the official manifest. If he’s bringing in any unauthorized stuff, they want to know about it. I don’t think the Turks will allow it to land here, but if it does, Washington wants it searched for unauthorized weapons.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“How the hell should I know, Thompson? You have the manifest—if it’s not on there, it’s contraband. Confiscate it.”

“Isn’t anyone around here going to support McLanahan at all? The guy’s just trying to do his job. He saved our bacon during the attack and probably saved the vice president’s, too.”

“McLanahan will be okay, Thompson, don’t worry about him,” Wilhelm said. “Besides, we have our orders, and they come from the very top. I’m not going to let guys like McLanahan ruin my career. Send the recordings to division as soon as possible.”

“Hiya, big guy.”

“Dad?” There was nothing like hearing your son’s voice saying “Dad,” Patrick thought; it always gave him a thrill. “Where are you?”

“Still in Iraq.”

“Oh.” Bradley James McLanahan, who had just turned thirteen, was still a kid of few words—like his old man, Patrick surmised. “When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think it’ll be soon. Listen, I know you’re getting ready for school, but I wanted to…”

“Can I try out for football this year?”

“Football?” That was a new one, Patrick thought. Bradley played soccer and tennis and could water-ski, but he never showed any interest in contact sports before. “Sure, if you want to, as long as your grades are good.”

“Then you got to tell Aunt Mary. She says I’ll get hurt and turn my brain to mush.”

“Not if you listen to the coach.”

“Will you tell her? Here.” Before Patrick could say anything, his youngest sister, Mary, was on the line. “Patrick?”

“Hi, Mare. How are—”

“You are not going to allow him to play football, are you?”

“Why not, if he wants to and his grades—”

“His grades are okay, but they could be better if only he would stop daydreaming, journaling, and doodling about spaceships and fighter jets,” his sister said. Mary was a pharmacist, with grades good enough for medical school if she had the time between raising Bradley and two of her own. “Have you ever seen a middle school football game?”

“No.”

“Those players get bigger and bigger every year, their hormones are raging, and they have more physical strength than the skills to control themselves. Bradley’s more of a bookworm than a jock. Besides, he just wants to do it because his friends are going to try out and some girls in his class are going to try out for cheerleading.”

“That always motivated me. Listen, I need to speak with—”

“Oh, I got an e-mail this morning saying that the automatic deposit from your company from last week was reversed. No explanation. I’m overdrawn, Patrick. It’ll cost me fifty dollars plus any other penalties from whoever I wrote checks to. Can you get that straightened out so I don’t get buried in bounced check fees?”

“It’s a new company, Mary, and the payroll might be screwed up.” His entire paycheck from Scion went to his sister to help with expenses; his entire Air Force retirement went into a trust for Bradley. His sister didn’t like that, because paychecks from Scion were irregular depending on if the company had a contract and had any money to pay upper management, but Patrick had insisted. That made Bradley more of an outsider than he wanted, but it was the best arrangement he could make right now. “Give it a week or so, okay? I’ll get all the charges reversed.”

“Are you coming home soon? Steve wants to go to a rodeo in Casper next month.”

And the trailer they brought on such trips didn’t have room for a third kid, Patrick thought. “Yes, I think I’ll be home by then, and you guys can take off. Let me speak with…”

“He’s running to catch the bus. He’s always drawing or doodling or writing in his notebook and I have to tell him a dozen times to get moving or he’ll miss the bus. Everything okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay, but there was a little incident lately, and I wanted to tell Bradley and you about it before—”

“Good. There’s so much stuff on the news about Iraq and Turkey lately, and we think of you every night when we watch the news.”

“I think of you guys all the time. But early this morning—”

“That’s nice. I gotta run, Patrick. I’m interviewing some pharmacy techs this morning. Steve and the kids send their love. Bye bye.” And the connection was broken.

That’s how most of their phone conversations went, he thought as he hung up his phone: a very brief conversation with his son, a complaint and request from his sister or brother-in-law—usually a request for family time that didn’t involve Bradley—followed by a harried good-bye. Well, what did he expect? He had a young teenage son who had been either dragged around the country or left with relatives most of his life; he didn’t get to see his dad too much, only read about him in newspapers or on TV, usually involving harsh criticism about some questionable involvement in some near-catastrophic global calamity. His relatives certainly cared about Bradley, but they had their own lives to live and they frequently saw Patrick’s escapades as a means of running away from mundane family life back home.

He made some calls to Scion’s headquarters back in Las Vegas about his paycheck; they assured him the “check was in the mail” even though it was always transferred electronically. Then he was patched through to Kevin Martindale, former president of the United States and silent owner of Scion Aviation International.

“Hello, Patrick. Heard you had a tough day.”

“Rough as sandpaper, sir,” Patrick said. One of the code words that employees of Scion Aviation International were taught to use was sandpaper—if used in any conversation or correspondence, it meant they were under duress or being bugged.

“Got it. Sorry about the contract being canceled. I’ll try to work things from here, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Do you know if I’m going to be arrested?”

“Sometime tomorrow or the next day. I haven’t seen the warrant, but I expect it’ll be served soon.”

“The Turks were jamming the hell out of us. We had to shut down the plane.”

“Don’t worry about it, just do what they tell you to do and keep silent. You should send your freighter aircraft elsewhere. It won’t be safe in Iraq.”

“We’ll need it to start packing up.”

“It’s risky. The Turks will want it. They may try to grab it when it flies through their airspace.”

“I know.”

“It’s your call. Anything else for me?”

“Some snafu with the paycheck. A deposit that was made days ago was yanked out.”

“No snafu,” Martindale said. “Our accounts have been frozen solid. I’m working that, too, but now we’ve got multiple departments and the White House in on this, so it’ll take longer. Try not to worry about it.”

“Yes, sir.” And the call abruptly terminated. Well, sleep was going to be impossible now, Patrick thought, so he powered up his laptop. Just as he started to surf the Internet and read the news from the outside world, he picked up a call. “McLanahan here.”

“Patrick? I just heard! Thank God you’re okay.”

It sounded like his sister Mary calling him back, but he wasn’t sure. “Mary?”

“This is Gia Cazzotto, you ninny—I mean, ninny sir,” the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Cazzotto, the commander of the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron, said, laughing. “Who’s Mary? Some young engineer in a lab coat and big glasses who transforms herself into Marilyn Monroe when she pulls a pin out of her hair?”

Patrick’s laugh was a lot more strained and high-pitched than he wanted. “No, no, no,” he said, confused that his mouth had suddenly turned so dry. “Mary is my sister. Lives in Sacramento. I just spoke with her. Thought it was her calling back.”

“Sure, sure, sure, I’ve heard that one before,” Gia said. “Listen, Patrick, I just heard about the attack on Nahla, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Jon and I got our bells rung, but we’re okay, thanks.”

“I’m in Dubai right now, but I got permission to come over as soon as they’re letting personnel come up north,” she said. “I want to see you and find out what happened.”

“That would be great, Boxer, really great,” Patrick said, “but I might be shipping out soon.”

“Shipping out?”

“Back to Washington. Long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time, Patrick. Lay it on me.”

“Not ‘long’ as in time, but ‘long’ as in…a lot of stuff I can’t talk about.”

“Gotcha.” There was a bit of an uncomfortable pause; then: “Hey, our seventh airframe just showed up today here in the United Arab Emirates, and we received our eighth airframe today at Palmdale. This one has got all kinds of weird gizmos in the forward bomb bay, and I figured it had to be one of yours.”

“Did you get it from the Boneyard?”

“No, it was in flyable storage at Tonopah.” Tonopah Test Range was an air base in southern Nevada used for classified weapons tests before an aircraft was delivered to active duty. “It’s got all kinds of fuel lines running here and there through the bomb bays, and something that looks like a car assembly robot with arms and claws everywhere.”

“We had B-1 bombers that could recover, rearm, refuel, and re-launch FlightHawk cruise missiles in-flight. That must be one of them.”

“No shit! That’s cool. Maybe we can put that system together again.”

“I’m sure I can get Jon Masters at Sky Masters Inc. to send you the schematics.”

“Great. Any other cool stuff like that, send it along, too. I’m not getting Air Force acquisition officers and budget weenies hanging up on me anymore when I call to ask about getting money for stuff—they actually seem interested in building bombers nowadays.”

“Probably because they’re taking everything else away from the Air Force other than tankers and transports.”

“I’m sure.” There was another few moments of quiet; then Gia said, “I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“I’m glad you did, Gia.”

“I also hope you don’t mind me calling you Patrick.”

“I’m glad you did. Besides, it is my name.”

“Don’t tease me…unless you really want to.”

A loud-pitched squeal erupted in Patrick’s ears, and he felt his face flush as if he had said a swearword in front of his sainted grandmother. What in hell was that? Did he just blush…? “No…no…”

“You don’t want to tease me?”

“No…I mean, I do want—”

“You do want to tease me? Oh, goody.”

“No…jeez, Boxer, you’re making me goofy over here.”

“I like a little goofy now and then, too, but I prefer teasing to goofy.”

“All right, Colonel, all right, that’s enough.”

“Pulling rank on me now, General?”

“If I have to,” Patrick said. The chuckle came out like a strangled donkey’s bray.

“Hey, Patrick.”

“Yeah?”

“I really want to see you. What about you? Do you want to see me?”

Patrick felt the flushing in his cheeks turn into a warm spot in his chest, and he breathed it in and let it fill his entire body. “I would really like that, Gia.”

“Mary is really your sister and not Mrs. McLanahan?”

“Really my sister. My wife, Wendy, passed several years ago.” That was only true if you thought being nearly beheaded by an insane female Russian terrorist in Libya could be considered a “passing,” but he wasn’t going to go into that with Gia now.

“Sorry to hear that. I can’t come up there?”

“I…don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Patrick said.

“But you can’t talk about what or why?”

“Not over the phone.” There was an uncomfortable pause on the line, and Patrick said hurriedly, “I’ll know by tomorrow night, Gia, and we’ll arrange to get together then.” He paused, then asked, “Uh, there’s no Mr. Cazzotto, is there?”

“I was wondering if you’d ask,” Gia said with a pleased tone in her voice. “Most guys I run into ask about a spouse afterward.”

“After what?”

She laughed. “If you want me to describe it to you in detail, cowboy, settle in and get comfortable.”

“I get the picture.”

“Anyway, before I get distracted: there was a husband, but not since I went back into the Air Force and was assigned to Plant Forty-two. He’s still in the Bay area with our teenagers, a boy and a girl. You have any kids?”

“A boy, just turned thirteen.”

“Then you know how tough it is to be away.”

“Yes.” There was another pause, as if they were silently acknowledging the new bond between them; then Patrick said, “I’ll let you know what’s happening and tell you all about it when we see each other.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“One more question?”

“I’ve got all night for you.”

“How did you get my cell number? It’s not published.”

“Oooh, a secret number? Well, I feel privileged, then. I called Scion Aviation and your friend David Luger gave it to me. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“I owe him one.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“In a very good way.”

“Perfect. Good night, Patrick.” And she hung up.

Well, Patrick thought as he hung up, this was turning into a very bizarre day—plenty of surprises, good ones as well as bad. Time to hit the rack and see what tomorrow had rigged up for—

Just then, a knock on the door. “Patrick? It’s me,” he heard Jon Masters say. “I brought the report on the number one Loser you wanted to see.”

“C’mon in, Jon,” Patrick said. He hadn’t asked to see any report…what was going on? He heard the outer door open and close, and then the inner door open. “It could’ve waited for tomorrow morning, Jon, but as long as you’re—”

He looked at the doorway and saw none other than Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla, standing there!

Patrick put a finger to his lips, and Jaffar nodded that he understood. “How about some coffee, Jon? It’s instant, but it’s okay.” He pulled out a pad of paper and wrote, ????

“Sure, Muck, I’ll give it a try,” Jon said. On the paper he wrote, New client. Patrick widened his eyes in surprise and stared at Jaffar, who simply stood at the doorway with his hands behind his back, looking impatient. “Here’s the report,” he said. “The number one Loser is code one. The freighter has a bunch of spare parts, which we don’t need right now—what we’ll need is the room to start hauling our gear out. The Loser can carry a lot of it, but we’ll need more space.”

“We’ll worry about that when the freighter arrives,” Patrick said. He wrote: Hire Scion? Jon nodded. Patrick wrote: When? Why?

Jon wrote: Tonight. Defend Iraq against Turkey.

How? Patrick wrote.

Take Nahla, Jon wrote.

I don’t see how, Patrick said.

Jaffar’s eyes widened with impatience. He snatched the pencil out of Jon’s hands and wrote, My base, my country, my home. Help, or get out. Decide. Now.

“Ankara Center, Scion Seven-Seven, level, flight level three-three zero over reporting point Afsin, estimating reporting point Simak in twenty-six minutes.”

“Scion Seven-Seven, Ankara Center copies, good evening. Expect handoff to Mosul Approach five minutes prior to Simak.”

“Scion Seven-Seven copies.”

The radios fell silent for several minutes until: “Scion Seven-Seven, change to Diyarbakir Approach frequency VHF one-three-five-point-zero-five.”

It was a rather unusual request—they were transitioning well above the local approach control’s airspace—but the pilot didn’t argue: “Roger, Ankara, Scion Seven-Seven switching to Diyarbakir Approach.” He made the frequency change, then: “Diyarbakir Approach, Scion Seven-Seven, level, flight level three-three zero.”

A heavily Turkish-accented voice responded in English: “Scion Seven-Seven, this is Diyarbakir Approach, descend and maintain one-seven thousand feet, turn left heading three-four-five, vectors to Irgani intersection, altimeter setting two-niner niner eight.”

“Here we go,” the pilot said cross-cockpit, taking a deep cleansing breath to control his quickly rising excitement. He keyed his intercom button: “They just vectored us for the ILS approach into Diyarbakir, sir.”

“Question it but take the vector,” David Luger said via encrypted satellite link from Scion headquarters in Las Vegas. “We’re ready.”

“Roger.” On the radio, the pilot said, “Uh, Diyarbakir, Seven-Seven, why the vector? We’re on a priority international flight plan, destination Tall Kayf.”

“Your transition through Turkish airspace has been canceled by the Turkish Ministry of Defense and Frontier Security, Seven-Seven,” the approach controller said. “You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing at Diyarbakir. Once your plane, crew, and cargo have been inspected, you will be permitted to continue to your destination.”

“This is not right, Approach,” the pilot protested. “Our flight did not originate or terminate in Turkey, and we filed a flight plan. We are not subject to inspection as long as we are only overflying your airspace. If you want, we can exit your airspace.”

“You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing at Diyarbakir, or you will be considered a hostile aircraft and we will respond accordingly,” the controller said. “There are fighters standing by that will intercept you and escort you to Diyarbakir if you do not comply. Acknowledge.”

“Approach, we’re turning to your heading and descending,” the pilot responded, “but I will be messaging my headquarters and advising them of your threat. We will comply under protest.”

“I have been informed to notify you that the American consulate has been notified of our actions and will meet you at Diyarbakir for the inspection and interviews,” the controller said after a lengthy pause. “They will remain with you at all times while you are on the ground and will observe all of our enforcement actions.”

“This is still not right, Approach,” the pilot went on. “You can’t divert us like this. This is illegal.” On the intercom, the pilot asked, “You want us to keep descending, sir?”

“One more minute,” Dave Luger said. The Boeing 767 freighter had actually been a test-bed aircraft for the high-tech sensors and transmitters mounted on the XC-57. Most of them were still installed, including the ability to network-intrude, or “netrude”—send digital instructions to an enemy computer or network by inserting code into a digital receiver return signal. Once the proper digital frequency was discovered, Luger could remotely send computer instructions into an enemy network that, if not detected and firewalled, could propagate throughout the enemy’s computer network worldwide like any other shared piece of data.

“Diyarbakir’s radar isn’t digital, so we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way,” Luger went on. Netrusion only worked on digital systems—if the enemy had older analog radar systems it wouldn’t work. “You guys strap in tight—this might get hairy.” Both the pilot and copilot pulled their seat belts and shoulder harnesses as tight as they could and still reach all the controls.

Suddenly the radio frequency exploded into a crashing waterfall of squeals, popping, and hissing. The Turkish controller’s voice could be heard, but it was completely unintelligible. “Okay, guys, the radar is jammed,” Luger said. “You’re cleared direct Nahla, descend smartly to seventeen thousand feet, keep the speed up. We’re keeping an eye on your threat warning receiver.” The pilot swallowed hard, made the turn, pulled the power back, and pushed the nose over until the airspeed readout was right at the barber-pole limit. With the airspeed and descent rate pegged, they lost the sixteen thousand feet in less than six minutes.

“Okay, guys, here’s the situation,” Dave radioed after they had leveled off. “They just launched a couple F-16s from Diyarbakir—that’s the bad news. I can jam the approach radar but I don’t think I can jam or netrude into the fire control radars on the jets—that’s the really bad news. We think the F-16s have infrared sensors to locate you—that’s the really really bad news. They’ve also brought several Patriot missile batteries into the area you’re about to fly through—that’s the really really—well, you get the picture.”

“Yes, sir. What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to try to do a little low-level terrain masking while I try to link into the Patriot surveillance system,” Luger said. “Frontline Turkish F-16s have digital radars and datalinks, and I think I can break in, but I’ll have to wait until the datalink goes active, and it may take a while until the Patriot gets a glimpse of you.”

“Uh, sir? It’s dark out and we can’t see anything outside.”

“That’s probably best,” Luger said. The copilot furiously pulled out his aviation enroute charts for the area they were flying in and spread them out on the glare shield. “I think the F-16s will try to get vectors to you from the Patriot fire control radars until they can get a lock either with their radar or their IR.”

“Copy.” Over the ship’s intercom, the pilot said, “Mr. Macomber? Miss Turlock? Come up to the cockpit, please?”

A few moments later, retired U.S. Air Force special operations officer Wayne “Whack” Macomber and former U.S. Army National Guard engineer Charlie Turlock stepped through the door and found seats. Macomber, a former Air Force Academy football star and Air Force special operations meteorologist, found it a bit difficult to wedge his large muscular frame into the port-side jump seat. On the other hand, it was easy for Charlie—her real name, not a nickname, given to her by a father who thought he was getting a son—to nestle her lean, trim, athletic body into the folding jump seat between the pilots. Both newcomers put on headsets.

“What the hell is going on, Gus?” Wayne asked.

“That situation Mr. Luger briefed us on? It’s happening. The Turks want us to land in Diyarbakir and are probably going to scramble fighters after us.”

“Is Luger—”

“Trying to netrude into their air defense and datalink systems,” the pilot said. “We’ve jammed the approach control radar and started to evade them, but Mr. Luger can’t netrude their analog systems; he has to wait for a digitally processed signal to come up.”

“I didn’t understand it when Luger first said it, and I don’t understand it now,” Macomber grumbled. “Just keep us from crashing or getting shot down, will ya?”

“Yes, sir. Thought you’d want to know. Strap in tight—this will get hairy.”

“Your passengers all buckled in?” David Luger asked.

“You just shut down those Turkish radars or I’ll come back and haunt you for all eternity, sir,” Whack radioed back.

“Hi, Whack. I’ll do my best. Charlie strapped in, too?”

“I’m ready to fly, David,” Charlie replied.

“Excellent, Charlie.”

Even faced with a dangerous ride ahead, Charlie turned and saw the amused smirk on Macomber’s face. “‘Excellent, Charlie,’” he mimicked. “‘Ready to fly, David.’ The general wants to be sure his lady love is safely tucked in. How cute.”

“Bite me, Whack,” she said, but she couldn’t help but smile.

“Ready, guys?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” the pilot said.

“Good. Descend right now to eleven thousand feet and fly heading one-five-zero.”

The pilot pushed his control wheel forward to begin the descent, but the copilot held out his hand to stop him. “The minimum descent altitude in this area is thirteen-four.”

“The high terrain in your sector is twelve o’clock, twenty-two miles. You’ll be above everything else…well, most everything else. I’ll steer you around the high stuff until your moving-map terrain readout starts showing you the terrain.” The pilot gulped again but pushed the controls forward to start the descent. The moment they descended through fourteen thousand feet, the computerized female voice in the Terrain Advisory and Warning System blared, “High terrain, pull up, pull up!” and the GPS moving-map display in the cockpit started flashing yellow, first ahead of them and then to their left side, where the terrain was the highest.

“Good going, guys,” Luger radioed. “On your moving map you should see a valley at your one o’clock position. The floor is nine-seven. Take that valley. Stay at eleven thousand for now.” The pilots saw a very narrow strip of dark surrounded by flashing yellow and now red boxes, the red indicating terrain that was above their altitude.

“What’s the width, sir?”

“It’s plenty wide for you. Just watch the turbulence.” At that exact moment the crew was bounced against their harnesses by wave after wave of turbulence. The pilot was struggling to maintain heading and altitude. “It’s…getting…worse,” the pilot grunted. “I don’t know if I can hold it.”

“That valley should be good until you reach the border in about eighteen minutes,” Luger radioed.

“Eighteen minutes! I can’t hold it for—”

“Climb!” Luger interrupted. “Full power, hard climb to thirteen, heading two-three-zero, now!”

The pilot shoved the throttles to full power and hauled back on the controls with all his might. “I can’t turn! The terrain—”

“Turn now! Hurry!” The pilots could do nothing else but turn, pull on the controls until the plane hung on the very edge of a stall…and pray. The flashing red blocks on the terrain warning display were touching the very tip of the plane’s icon…they were seconds from a crash…

…and then at that moment the red turned to yellow, signifying that they were within five hundred feet of the ground. “Oh Jesus, oh God, we made it…”

And at that instant a flash of fire streaked past the cockpit windows, less than a hundred yards in front of them. The cockpit was filled with an eerie yellow burst of light like the world’s largest flashbulb had just gone off right in front of them, and the pilots could even feel a burst of heat and pressure. “What was that?” the copilot screamed.

“Heading two-three-zero, eleven thousand feet,” Luger said. “Everyone okay? Acknowledge.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry, guys, but I had to do it,” Luger said.

“Do what?”

“I flew you into the engagement envelope of a Patriot missile battery.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way I could get the datalink frequency for the Patriot and between the Patriot and the F-16s,” Luger said.

“Holy crap…we almost got nailed by a Patriot missile…?”

“Yeah, but only one—they must be trying to conserve missiles,” Dave said. “They may have just launched it as a warning, or it might have been a decoy missile.”

“How about a little warning next time you put us in the gun sights, sir?” Macomber snapped.

“No time for chitchat, Whack. I’ve got the Patriot’s datalink frequency locked in, and I’m waiting for them to start talking to the F-16. As soon as they do, I can shut both of them down. But I need to keep you high, right on the edge of the Patriot’s engagement envelope. If I keep you too low, the F-16 might switch to his infrared sensor and not use the Patriot radar. That means I’m going to have to give him another good look at you. Fly heading one-nine-zero and climb to twelve thousand. You’re fifteen minutes to the Iraq border.”

“This is loco,” the 767 pilot murmured, flexing knots out of his hands and fingers. He began a shallow climb and a turn to—

“Okay, guys, the Patriot’s back up, and he’s got you, seven o’clock, twenty-nine miles,” Dave said a few moments later. “Still in sector scan mode…now he’s in target-tracking mode…c’mon, boys, what are you waiting for…?”

“If he’s verbally vectoring in the F-16, he can get him within range of his IR sensor without using the datalink, right?” the freighter pilot asked.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t think about that,” Luger said. “Fortunately most Patriot radar techs aren’t air traffic controllers; their job is to get the system to do its job. Okay, descend to eleven thousand, and let’s hope as you go down they’ll…” An instant later: “Got it! Datalink is active. Couple more seconds…c’mon, baby, c’mon…got it. Quick turn to heading one-six-five, keep going to eleven thousand. The F-16 is at your six o’clock, fifteen miles and closing, but he should be turning off to your right. The Iraqi border is at your eleven o’clock, about thirteen minutes.”

The picture was looking better and better. “Okay, guys, the F-16s closed to six miles but he’s way off to your right,” Luger said a few minutes later. “He’s chasing a target being sent to him by the Patriot battery. Descend to ten thousand.”

“What happens when he gets within his IR sensor range and we’re not there?” the freighter pilot asked.

“Hopefully he’ll think his sensor malfunctioned.”

“Scion Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three flight of two, Republic of Turkey Air Force air defense fighter interceptors,” they heard on the UHF emergency GUARD frequency. “We are at your six o’clock position and have you in radar contact. You are ordered to climb to seventeen thousand feet, lower your landing gear, and turn right to a heading of two-nine-zero, direct to Diyarbakir.”

“Go ahead and answer him,” Dave said. “Maintain this heading. Your radar blip is going to comply with his orders.”

“Yukari, this is Scion Seven-Seven, we are turning and in a climb,” the freighter pilot radioed. “Safe your weapons. We’re unarmed.”

“Scion flight, Yukari One-One-Three leader will join on your left side,” the F-16 pilot radioed. “My wingman will remain at your six o’clock position. You will see our inspection light. Do not be alarmed. Continue your turn and your climb as ordered.”

“He’s within six miles of the ghost target,” Dave said. “Hang in there, guys. You’re eight minutes to the border.”

Another sixty seconds passed without any radio chatter until: “Scion flight, what is your altitude?”

“One-four thousand,” Dave Luger said.

“Scion Seven-Seven is passing one-four thousand for one-seven thousand,” the freighter pilot responded.

“Activate all of your exterior lights immediately!” the Turkish fighter pilot ordered. “All lights on!”

“Our lights are on, Yukari flight.”

“He’s within two miles of the false target,” Dave Luger said. “He’s probably got his inspection light on and is looking at nothing but…”

The freighter pilots waited, but heard nothing. “Scion base, this is Seven-Seven, how copy?” No response. “Scion base, Seven-Seven, how do you hear?”

The copilot’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Oh, shit, we lost the downlink with headquarters,” he breathed. “We’re dead meat.”

“Great. Perfect time for all this high-tech gear to go tits-up,” Whack complained. “Get us out of here, Gus!”

“We’re going direct Nahla,” the pilot said, shoving the throttles forward. “Hopefully those guys won’t shoot us down if we’re across the border.”

“Let’s try that terrain-masking stuff again,” the copilot suggested. The terrain depicted on the moving map display in the cockpit still showed some hills, but it was quickly smoothing out the farther south they went. “We can go down to nine-seven in a few miles, and in twenty miles we can go all the way to—”

At that instant the cockpit was filled with an intense white light coming in from the left side as hot and bright as noon. They tried to look at whoever it was, but they couldn’t look anywhere in that direction. “Holy shit!” the pilot screamed. “I’m flash-blinded, I can’t see—”

“Straighten up, Gus!”

“I said I can’t take the controls, I can’t see, dammit,” the pilot said. “Ben, take the wheel…!”

“Scion Seven-Seven, this is Yukari One-One-Three flight of two, we have you in sight,” the Turkish fighter pilot radioed. “You will immediately lower your landing gear and turn right to heading two-nine-zero. You are being tracked by Turkish surface-to-air missile batteries. Comply immediately. The use of deadly force has been authorized.”

“Your light has blinded the pilot!” the copilot radioed. “Don’t shine it in the cockpit! Turn that thing off!”

A moment later the light was extinguished…followed seconds later by a second-long burst of cannon fire from the Turkish F-16’s twenty-millimeter nose cannon. The muzzle flash was almost as brilliant as the inspection floodlight, and they could feel the fat supersonic shells beating the air around them, the shock waves reverberating off the Boeing 767’s cockpit windows just a few dozen yards away. “That was the final warning shot, Scion Seven-Seven,” the Turkish pilot said. “Follow my instructions or you will be shot down without further warning!”

“What the hell do we do now?” Whack asked. “We’re sunk.”

“We have no choice,” the copilot said. “I’m turning…”

“No, keep heading toward Nahla,” Charlie said. She reached over and switched her rotary transmit switch from “intercom” to “UHF-2.” “Yukari One-One-Three flight, this is Charlie Turlock, one of the passengers on Scion Seven-Seven,” she radioed.

“What the hell are you doing, Charlie?” Macomber asked.

“Playing the gender and sympathy cards, Whack—they’re the only ones we have left,” Charlie said cross-cockpit. On the radio, she went on, “Yukari flight, we are an American cargo aircraft on a peaceful and authorized flight to Iraq. We are not a warplane, we are not armed, and we have no hostile intent against our allies, the people of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board this flight, including six women. Let us continue our flight in peace.”

“You will comply immediately. This is our final order.”

“We are not going to turn around,” Charlie said. “We are almost at the Iraqi border, and our transmissions on the international emergency GUARD channel are certainly being monitored by listening posts from Syria to Persia. We are an unarmed American cargo plane on an authorized overflight of Turkey. There are nineteen souls on board. If you shoot us down now, the bodies and the wreckage will land in Iraq, and the world will know what you’ve done. You may think you have valid orders or a good reason to open fire, but you will be held responsible for your own judgment. If you believe your leaders and wish to follow their orders to kill all of us, fine, but you must pull the trigger. Our lives are in your hands now.”

A moment later they saw, then felt a tongue of white-hot flame zip by their left cockpit windows—the single afterburner plume from an F-16 fighter. “He’s going around, maneuvering behind us,” the copilot said. “Shit; oh shit…!” They could sense the presence of the jets behind them, practically taste the adrenaline and sweat emanating from the Turkish pilots’ bodies as they swung around for the kill. Seconds passed…

…then more seconds, then a minute. No one breathed for what seemed like an eternity. Then they heard: “Scion Seven-Seven, this is Mosul Approach Control on GUARD frequency, we show you at your scheduled border crossing point. If you hear Mosul Approach, squawk modes three and C normal and contact me on two-four-three-point-seven. Acknowledge immediately.”

The copilot shakily responded, and everyone else let out a collective sigh of relief. “Man, I thought we were goners,” Macomber said. He reached up and patted Charlie on the shoulder. “You did it, darlin’. You sweet-talked our way out of it. Good job.”

Charlie turned to Macomber, smiled, nodded her thanks…and promptly vomited on the cockpit floor in front of him.

“Are you eggheads insane?” Colonel Jack Wilhelm exploded as Wayne Macomber and Charlie Turlock led the other passengers and crew off the Boeing 767 freighter once it was parked at the base. “Don’t you realize what’s going on out there?”

“You must be Colonel Wilhelm,” Macomber said as he reached the bottom of the air stairs. “Thanks for the warm welcome to Iraq.”

“Who are you?”

“Wayne Macomber, chief of security for Scion Aviation International,” Wayne replied. He did not offer his hand to Wilhelm, a fact that made the regimental commander even angrier. The two men were about equal in height and weight, and they immediately started sizing each other up. “This is Charlie Turlock, my assistant.” Charlie rolled her eyes but said nothing. “I’m going to drain the dragon—and probably change my undies after that flight—and then I need to speak with the general and the head egghead, Jon Masters.”

“First of all, you’re not going anywhere until we inspect your papers and your cargo,” Wilhelm said. “You’re not even supposed to get off the damn plane before customs does an inspection.”

“Customs? This is an American flight sitting on an American base. We don’t do customs.”

“You’re a private aircraft sitting on an Iraqi base, so you need to be processed by customs.”

Macomber looked around Wilhelm. “I don’t see any Iraqis here, Colonel, just private security…and you.” He took a folder out of the pilot’s hands. “Here’s our paperwork, and here’s the pilot. He’ll do all the customs shit with you and whatever Iraqis want to tag along. We don’t have time for customs. Let us do our thing. You stay out of our way, and we’ll stay out of yours.”

“My orders are to inspect this plane, Macomber, and that’s what we’ll do,” Wilhelm said. “The crew stays on board until the inspection is completed. Thompson here and his men will do the inspection, and you’d better cooperate with them or I’ll put all of you in the brig. Clear?”

Macomber looked as if he was going to argue, but he gave Wilhelm a slight nod and smile and gave the paperwork packet back to the pilot. “Ben, go with Gus.” Wilhelm was going to argue, but Macomber said, “The pilot was hurt in the flight in. He needs help. Make it quick, boys,” and motioned for the others to follow him back up the air stairs. They were followed by two of Thompson’s security officers and a German shepherd on a leather leash. A group of Thompson’s security men began opening cargo doors and baggage compartment hatches to begin their inspections.

Inside the plane, one security officer began inspecting the cockpit while the other herded Macomber and the other passengers to their seats and inspected the inside of the plane. The forward part of the Boeing 767 freighter’s interior behind the cockpit had a removable galley and lavatory on one side, and two fiberglass containers marked LIFE RAFTS with reinforced tape seals marked DEPT OF DEFENSE wrapped around them on the other beside the entry door. Behind them was the removable forward-facing passenger seat pallet, with seating for eighteen passengers. Behind them were eight semicircular cargo containers, four on each side of the plane, with narrow aisles between them, and behind them was a pallet with luggage covered by nylon netting and secured with nylon webbing.

The second security officer raised a radio to his lips: “I count eighteen crew and passengers, two life raft containers, galley and lavatory, and eight A1N cargo containers. The life raft inspection seals are secure.”

“Roger,” came the reply. “Passenger count checks. But the manifest only says six A1Ns.” The officer looked at the passengers suspiciously.

“No wonder it took so long to get here—we’re overloaded,” Macomber said. “Who brought the extra containers? Is that all your makeup back there, Charlie?”

“I thought it was your knitting, Whack,” Turlock replied.

“I’m going to pass down the aisle with the K-9,” the security officer said. “Don’t make any sudden movements.”

“Can I go pee first?” Macomber asked.

“After the lavatory has been inspected and the K-9 passes through the cabin,” the officer replied.

“How long will that be?”

“Just cooperate.” The guard began to walk the dog down the aisle, touching the seat pockets and motioning under and between the seats, indicating where he wanted the dog to sniff.

“Nice doggie,” Wayne said when the dog came to him.

“No talking to the K-9,” the officer said. Macomber smiled, then scowled in reply.

“Cockpit is clear,” the first security officer said. He began inspecting the galley and lavatory, finishing a few minutes later.

“C’mon, guy, I’m going to explode over here.”

“No talking,” the second officer said. It took another three minutes for the K-9 to finish. “You may get up and exit the plane,” the second officer announced. “You must proceed directly to the officer outside, who will match you up with your passports and identification papers. Leave all belongings on the plane.”

“Can I use the can first?”

The second security guard looked like he was going to say no, but the first guard waved a hand. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said. Macomber rushed to the lavatory while the others filed out. The second officer continued his inspection in the rear of the cabin among the cargo containers.

It was controlled bedlam outside the plane. The security officers were using forklifts to unload containers from the cargo holds underneath the plane, which K-9s sniffed around. The crew could see K-9s sitting before some of the containers; these were marked and brought to a separate area of an adjacent hangar. Another officer checked each passport with its owner, then had each person wait with the others nearby, under the watchful eye of an armed security officer.

Kris Thompson came over a short time later and looked at the group of passengers. “Where’s Macomber?”

“Still in the lavatory,” Charlie Turlock replied. “He’s not a strong flier.”

Thompson looked over to the air stairs. “Chuck? What’s going on up there?”

“A lot of grunting, groaning, and brown clouds,” the first security officer waiting for Macomber replied.

“Hurry him up.” Thompson turned back to Charlie. “Can you help me with the manifest, miss?” he asked. “There are a few discrepancies I’m hoping you can clear up for me.”

“Sure. I’m familiar with all the stuff on board.” She followed Thompson along to the various piles of containers.

Up in the cabin, the first security officer said, “Let’s go, buddy.”

“Almost done.” The officer heard sounds of flushing, then running water, and the lavatory door was unlocked. Even before the door was fully open, the unbearable odors within made the officer gasp for breath. “Jeez, buddy, what in hell were you eating on this—”

Macomber hit him once on the left temple with his right fist, knocking him unconscious without another sound. He quickly dragged the officer forward, put him on the cockpit floor, closed the door, then went back to the cabin and stripped off the security tape around the first life raft container.

Outside the plane, Thompson motioned to different piles of containers. “These are clear and match with the manifest,” he said to Charlie, “but these here don’t match.” He motioned to a large pile of containers across the taxiway in the hangar, now under armed guard. “The dogs alerted to either drugs or explosives in those, and they didn’t match the manifest either. The manifest doesn’t mention you bringing in explosives.”

“Well, they’re certainly not drugs,” Charlie said. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for all these undocumented containers.”

“Good.”

Charlie motioned to the squarish containers. “These are CID battery packs,” she explained. “There are four pairs of battery packs in each case. Each pair attaches to recesses behind the thighs. Those other containers have battery packs, too, but they’re for Tin Man units. They’re worn in pairs on the belt.”

“CID? Tin Man? What’s that?”

“CID stands for Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Charlie said matter-of-factly. “A CID is a piloted combat robot. Tin Man is a nickname for a commando who is enclosed in a suit of armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically Reactive Process. The suit has an exoskeleton that gives the commando increased strength, and the BERP material makes him invulnerable to…well, any infantry-and squad-level weapon and even some light artillery. The stuff over there is the mission packs for the CID units, some of which contain grenade and UAV launchers.” She smiled at the shocked expression on Thompson’s face. “Are you getting all this?”

“Are…are you joking, miss?” Thompson stammered. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke,” Charlie said. “Watch. I’ll show you.” She turned to a large, irregularly shaped device about the size of a refrigerator and spoke, “CID One, activate.” Before Thompson’s disbelieving eyes, the device began to unfold piece by piece, until seconds later a ten-foot-tall robot stood before him. “That’s a CID.” She turned and motioned to the top of the air stairs. “And that is a Tin Man.” Thompson looked and saw a man dressed head to foot in a smooth dark gray outfit, wearing a bullet-shaped multifaceted eyeless helmet, a belt with two circular devices attached, thick knee-high boots, and gloves with thick gauntlets that extended to the elbows.

“CID One, pilot up,” she said. The robot crouched down, extended a leg and both arms backward, and a hatch popped open on its back. “Have a nice day,” Charlie said, patting Thompson on the shoulder, then climbed up the extended leg and inside the robot. The hatch closed, and seconds later the robot came to life, moving just like a person with incredible smoothness and animation.

“Now, sir”—the robot spoke in a man’s voice through a hidden speaker with a low electronically synthesized voice—“order your men not to interfere with me or the Tin Man. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re going to—”

At that moment someone inside the plane yelled, “Freeze or I’ll send my dog!” The Tin Man turned inside the cargo compartment, and immediately shots could be heard. Thompson saw the Tin Man flinch, but he didn’t go down.

“Oh, my, that wasn’t a good idea,” the woman inside the CID robot said. “Whack really hates getting shot at.”

The Tin Man didn’t raise any weapon, but Thompson saw a bright flash of light briefly illuminate the cargo compartment of the plane. No more shots were heard. The Tin Man jumped from the plane to the tarmac as easily as stepping off a curb. He motioned to one of the men being guarded and jabbed a finger at the plane. “Terry, suit up. José, climb aboard.” He electronically searched his list of radio frequencies stored in onboard computer memory. “General? Whack here.”

“Hi, Whack,” Patrick replied. “Welcome to Iraq.”

“We dropped trou and the shit’s bound to hit the fan real soon. Do something to calm the grunts unless you want a fight on your hands.”

“I’m on my way to the ramp. I’ll get Masters, Noble, and the rest of the Scion guys to help you. I’m sure we’ll meet Colonel Wilhelm out there shortly.”

“No doubt. We’re sorting out the—”

“Freeze!” the security officer guarding the passengers yelled, raising an MP5 submachine gun.

“Excuse me one sec, General,” Macomber radioed. Again, the Tin Man did not move or even look at the officer, but Thompson saw a blue lightning bolt arc from the Tin Man’s right shoulder and hit the security officer square in the chest, immediately knocking him unconscious.

The Tin Man stepped over to Thompson. The other security officers around them were all frozen in surprise; a few backed up and ran off to warn others. None of them even dared to reach for a weapon. The Tin Man grabbed Thompson by his jacket and lifted him off the ground, jamming his armored head right in Thompson’s face. “Did Charlie here tell you to tell your men we’re not going to hurt anyone here as long as you leave us alone?” Thompson was too stunned to reply. “I suggest you get your head out of your ass, get on the radio, and tell your men and the Army guys to stay in their barracks and leave us alone, or else we might hurt someone. And they better not have broken any of our stuff, the way they’re driving those forklifts.” He dropped Thompson and let him scurry clear.

Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his sensors built into the CID unit and compared them with a list downloaded from the Scion Aviation International team at Nahla, selected one, then spoke: “Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Do you read me?”

“Who is this?” Wilhelm replied a moment later.

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Macomber asked. “Just listen. My men and I are off-loading our equipment on the ramp and getting ready to fly. I don’t want to see any of your men anywhere in sight, or we’re going to tear you a new one. Do you copy me?”

“What in hell did you say?” Wilhelm thundered. “Who is this? How did you get on this frequency?”

“Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock,” Charlie interjected on the same frequency. “Pardon Mr. Macomber’s language, but he’s had a long day. What he meant to say is we’re out here on the ramp beginning our new contract operations, and we’d appreciate it if your men wouldn’t come around here. Would that be okay?” There was no response. “Good going, Whack,” Charlie radioed. “Now he’s pissed, and he’s going to bring the entire regiment.”

“Not if he’s smart,” Wayne said. But he knew that’s exactly what he’d do. “You and José, get backpacks on and stand by. Terry, let’s put the rail guns together and get ready to rumble.”

Charlie hurried off to the hangar where the weapon backpacks had been segregated, followed shortly by the other CID unit, and they selected and attached large backpacklike units on each other’s back. The backpacks contained forty-millimeter grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels that could fire rounds in almost any direction no matter which way they were turned and could fire a variety of munitions, including high explosive, antiarmor, and antipersonnel. Whack and another Tin Man located and assembled their weapons—massive electromagnetic rail runs, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter depleted uranium shell thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.

It didn’t take long for Wilhelm to arrive in a Humvee. He screeched to a halt just inside the parking ramp area far enough in to get a good look at the scene. As he studied the area in stunned disbelief, three soldiers with M-16s raced out of the Humvee, one hiding behind the Humvee and the other two fanning out and taking cover behind nearby buildings.

“Warhammer, this is Alpha, those Scion guys are not in custody,” Wilhelm radioed from the Humvee. “They are off-loading their aircraft. Security is not in sight. They’ve deployed unidentified robot-looking units with weapons visible. Get First Battalion out here on the double. I want—”

“Hold on, Colonel, hold on,” Macomber cut in on the command frequency. “We don’t want a fight with you. Calling out the troops and starting a gunfight will just get the Turks outside riled up.”

“Warhammer switching to Delta.”

But on the secondary channel, Macomber went on: “You can flip channels all day long, Colonel, but we’ll still find it. Listen, Colonel, we won’t bother you, so don’t bother us, okay?”

“Sir, vehicle approaching, five o’clock!” one of the soldiers yelled. A Humvee was driving up to Macomber’s position.

“Don’t shoot, Colonel, that’s probably McLanahan,” Macomber radioed.

“Shut the hell up, whoever you are,” Wilhelm radioed, drawing a .45 caliber pistol from his holster.

The newcomer came to a stop, and Patrick McLanahan stepped out, with his hands raised. “Easy, Colonel, we’re all on the same side here,” he said.

“Like hell,” Wilhelm shouted. “Sergeant, take McLanahan into custody and put him in the Triple-C under guard.”

“Look out!” one of the soldiers shouted. Wilhelm just caught a blur of motion out of the corner of an eye—and as if by magic, the gray-suited figure who had been near the hangar appeared out of the sky right beside the soldier closest to McLanahan. In an instant he snatched the M-16 rifle out of the soldier’s startled hands, bent it in half, and handed it back to him.

“Now cut the shit, all of you,” Macomber shouted, “or I break the next M-16 over someone’s head.”

The other armed soldiers raised their weapons and aimed them at Macomber, but Wilhelm raised his hands and shouted, “Weapons tight, weapons tight, put ’em down.” It wasn’t until then that he noticed that one of the large robots had appeared right beside him, covering the twenty or thirty yards between them with incredible speed and stealth. “Jeez…!” he breathed, startled.

“Hi, Colonel,” Charlie said in her electronically synthesized voice. “Good call. Let’s have a chat, okay?”

“McLanahan!” Wilhelm cried. “What in hell is going on here?”

“Change in mission, Colonel,” Patrick replied.

“What mission? Whose mission? Your mission is over. Your contract’s been canceled. You’re under my jurisdiction until someone takes your ass back to Washington.”

“I’ve got a new contract, Colonel, and we’re going to get it set up and running right now.”

“New contract? With whom?”

“With me, Colonel,” a voice said, and to Wilhelm’s surprise, Iraqi colonel Yusuf Jaffar emerged from the back of Patrick’s Humvee, followed by Vice President Ken Phoenix and two Secret Service agents.

“Jaffar…I mean, Colonel Jaffar…what is this about? What’s going on?”

“General McLanahan’s company has been hired by the government of the Republic of Iraq to provide…shall we say, specialized services,” Jaffar said. “They shall be based here, at Nahla, under my supervision.”

“But this is my base…!”

“You are wrong, sir. This is an Iraqi air base, not an American one,” Jaffar said. “You are guests here, not landlords.”

“McLanahan can’t work for you! He’s an American.”

“Scion Aviation International has State Department approval to operate in three dozen countries worldwide, including Iraq,” Patrick said. “The original contract was a joint cooperation agreement with both U.S. Central Command and the Republic of Iraq—I just reported to you. Now I report to Colonel Jaffar.”

“But you’re under arrest, McLanahan,” Wilhelm argued. “You’re still in my custody.”

“As long as the general is in my country and on my base, he is subject to my laws, not yours,” Jaffar said. “You may deal with him as you wish when he leaves, but now he is mine.”

Wilhelm opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it again in blank confusion. “This is insane,” he said finally. “What do you think you’re going to do, McLanahan?”

“Baghdad wants help inducing the Turks to leave Iraq,” Patrick said. “They think the Turks will start tearing up the country trying to eradicate the PKK, and then create a buffer zone along the border to make it harder for the PKK to come back.”

“All that’s going to accomplish is angering the Turks and widening the conflict,” Wilhelm said. “You’re crazy if you think President Gardner’s going to let you do this.”

“President Gardner is not my president, and he is not Iraq,” Jaffar said. “President Rashid does this thing because the Americans will not help us.”

“Help you? Help you do what, Colonel?” Wilhelm asked, almost pleading. “You want us to go to war with Turkey? You know how these Turkish incursions work, Colonel. They come in, they attack some isolated camps and hideouts, and they go home. They drove a little deeper this time. So what? They’re not interested in taking any land.”

“And General McLanahan will be here to make sure it does not happen,” Jaffar said. “America will not interfere with this.”

“You’re going to replace my regiment with McLanahan and his robot planes and robot…whatever these things are?” Wilhelm asked. “His little company up against at least four Turkish infantry divisions?”

“It is said that Americans have little faith—they believe only what is in front of their noses,” Jaffar said. “I have seen it is true for you, Colonel Wilhelm. But I look at General McLanahan’s amazing aircraft and weapons, and all I see are possibilities. Perhaps as you say the Turks will not take our land or slaughter any innocent Iraqis, and we will not need the general’s weapons. But this is the largest force ever to enter Iraq, and I fear they will not stop at breaking apart a few camps.”

Jaffar stepped over to Wilhem and stood right in front of him. “You are a fine soldier and commander, Colonel,” he said, “and your unit is brave and has sacrificed much for my people and my country. But your president is abandoning Iraq.”

“That’s not true, Colonel,” Wilhelm said.

“I am told by Vice President Phoenix that he was ordered to go to Baghdad and speak with my government about the Turkish invasion,” Jaffar said, “including establishing a security buffer zone in Iraq. Gardner not only condones this invasion, but he is willing to give up Iraqi land to placate the Turks. That is not acceptable. I look at you and your forces here on my base, and I see only hardship for my people.”

He stepped over to Patrick and looked at the Tin Man and CID unit there on the ramp. “But I look at General McLanahan and his weapons, and I see hope. He is willing to fight. It may be for money, but at least he is willing to lead his men into battle in Iraq.”

The expression on Wilhelm’s face was changing from anger to surprise to outright confusion. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said. “I have an entire brigade here…and I’m supposed to do nothing, in the middle of a Turkish invasion? I’m supposed to sit back and watch while you fly missions and send out these…these Tinker Toys? Baghdad is going to fight the Turks? Five years ago you didn’t have an organized army! Two years ago your unit didn’t even exist.”

“Excuse me, Colonel, but I don’t think you’re helping yourself here,” Vice President Phoenix said. He walked over to the Army colonel. “Let’s go to your command center, let me inform Washington about what’s going on, and ask for guidance.”

“You’re not buying into this nonsense, are you, sir?”

“I don’t see we have much choice right now, Colonel,” Phoenix said. He put a hand on Wilhelm’s shoulders and led him back to his Humvee. “Kind of like watching your daughter go off to college, isn’t it? They’re ready for their new life, but you’re not ready to see them off.”

“So, General McLanahan,” Yusuf Jaffar said after Wilhelm and his men departed, “as you Americans say, the ball is now in your court. You know Baghdad’s desires. What will you do now?”

“I think it’s time to test the Turks’ real intentions,” Patrick said. “Everyone has been very cooperative so far, and that’s good, but they’re still in your country with a lot of troops and aircraft. Let’s see what they do when you start insisting.”