Rogue Forces

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Movement at the front gate, sir!” the Turkish captain of the troops surrounding Nahla Air Base heard on his portable radio. “Combat vehicles lining up to exit!”

“Bombok!” the captain swore. “What’s going on?” He threw his coffee out the window and exited his armored personnel carrier. A Humvee flying an American flag and pulling a trailer was entering the entrapment area, with another Humvee-trailer combo outside waiting its turn. The weapon cupolas on each vehicle had machine guns and grenade launchers mounted, but they still had canvas covers on them, they were locked in road-march position, and the gunner’s stations were not manned.

“Where do they think they are going?” the Turkish infantry captain asked.

“Should we stop them?” his first sergeant asked.

“We have no orders to interfere with them unless they attack us,” the captain said. “Otherwise we observe and report only.”

The Turks watched as the first Humvee exited, then pulled out away from the front gate and stopped to wait for the second. The Turkish captain stepped over to the front passenger side of the lead vehicle. “Good morning, sir,” he said. He saw it was a civilian. He knew the Americans employed a lot of civilians to work at their military bases, but to see one out here was rather bizarre.

“Good morning…er, I mean, günaydin,” the man said in clumsy but understandable Turkish. “How’s it going?”

“Very well, sir,” the captain said in a low voice. The American just smiled and nodded. The Turk used the opportunity to peek inside the Humvee. There were two civilians in the rear seats and a lot of supplies under green tarps in the very back. One civilian passenger looked military, and he wore a strange outfit, like a scuba diver’s wet suit, covered by a jacket. He looked straight ahead and did not return the Turk’s gaze. The twenty-foot flatbed trailer was empty.

The American stuck out his right hand. “Jon Masters.”

The Turkish captain frowned, but took his hand and shook it. “Captain Evren.”

“Nice to met you,” Jon said. He looked around. “You guys doing okay out here? Anything we can get you?”

“No, efendim,” Evren said. He was waiting for some kind of explanation, but apparently this man was not interested in offering anything but chitchat. “May I ask where you are going, sir?”

“Just driving around.”

Evren looked at the gaggle of Humvees, then back at Jon with a stern expression. “At this hour, and with trailers?”

“Why not? I’ve been here in Iraq for a couple weeks and I haven’t seen anything of the countryside. Thought I’d better do it while the doin’ is good.”

Evren didn’t understand half of what the guy just said, and he was getting tired of his goofy smile. “May I ask please where you are going, sir, and what you intend to do with the trailers?” he repeated, much more forcefully.

“Just around.” Jon drew a circle with his finger. “Around. Around here.”

Evren was getting angry with the guy, but he had no authority to detain him. “Please be mindful of other military vehicles, sir,” he said. “Some of our larger vehicles have limited visibility for the driver. An encounter with a main battle tank would be unfortunate for you.”

The veiled threat didn’t seem to have any effect on the American. “I’ll tell the others,” he said idly. “Thanks for the tip. Bye-bye now.” And the convoy headed off.

“What should we do, sir?” the first sergeant asked.

“Have the checkpoints report their position to me as they pass,” Evren said, “then get someone to follow them.” The first sergeant hurried off.

The convoy of Humvees drove around to the north side of the base on public highways. They passed a Turkish army checkpoint at one intersection, where they were stopped so soldiers could look inside the vehicles, but not detained or searched. They continued north for a couple more miles, then exited the highway and drove farther north through a muddy open field. Ahead they saw stakes pounded in the ground with yellow “Caution” and “Keep Out” tape strung between them, and a few hundred yards beyond that was the wreckage of Scion Aviation International’s XC-57 Loser. The Turkish missiles apparently hadn’t hit the plane directly, but proximity fuses exploded the warheads near the pod-mounted engines atop the fuselage, shearing two of them off and sending the plane hurtling to the ground. It had landed on its left front side, crumpling most of the left wing and left side of the nose, and there had been a fire, but the rest of the plane sustained what might be called moderate damage; most of the right side of the plane was relatively intact.

There was a lone Russian IMR engineer vehicle parked at the tape border, with two Turkish soldiers on guard duty with it. The IMR had a crane mounted on the back and a blade in front resembling a bulldozer. The soldiers discarded cigarettes and coffee and got on portable radios as they saw the convoy approach. “Hayir, hayir!” one of them shouted, waving his hands. “Durun! Gidin!”

Jon Masters got out of the Humvee and trudged through the mud toward the soldiers. “Good morning! Günaydin!” he shouted. “How’s it going? Any of you guys speak English?”

“No come here! No stay!” the soldier shouted. “Tehlikeli! Dangerous here! Yasaktir! Prohibited!”

“No, it’s not dangerous at all,” Jon said. “You see, that’s my plane.” He patted his chest. “Mine. It belongs to me. I’m here to take a few parts back with me and check it out.”

The first soldier waved his arms in front of his face in a crossing motion while the second picked up his rifle, not pointing it but making it visible to all. “No entry,” the first said sternly. “Prohibited.”

“You can’t prohibit me from examining my own plane,” Jon said. “I have permission from the Iraqi government. You guys aren’t even Iraqi. What right do you have to stop me?”

“No entry,” the first soldier said. “Go away. Go back.” He pulled out his portable radio and began speaking while the second soldier raised his rifle to port arms in an obvious threatening gesture. When the first soldier finished radioing his report, he waved his hands as if trying to shoo away a youngster, shouting, “Go now. Siktir git! Go!”

“I’m not leaving without looking at my plane…what you guys did to my plane,” Jon said. He quickly walked past both soldiers, then walked backward toward the plane. The soldiers followed him, shouting orders in Turkish, confused and getting angrier by the second. Jon held up his hands and walked backward quicker. “I won’t be long, you guys, but I’m going to look at my plane. Leave me alone!” Jon started to run toward the plane.

“Dur! Stop!” The second shoulder raised his rifle into firing position but not aiming it at Jon, obviously to fire a warning shot. “Stop or I will—”

Suddenly the rifle was snatched out of his hands in the blink of an eye. The soldier turned…and saw a person wearing a head-to-toe suit of dark gray, an eyeless helmet right out of a science-fiction comic book, a framework of thin flexible tubules all across its skin, and thick gauntlets and boots. “Aman allahim…!”

“Don’t be rude,” the figure said in electronically synthesized Turkish. “No weapons”—he reached out with incredible quickness and snatched the portable transceiver away from the second soldier—“and no radios. I’ll give them back only if you show me you can behave.” The Turks backed away, then started to run when they realized they weren’t going to be captured.

“C’mon, guys, let’s go,” Jon said, trotting toward the stricken XC-57. “See, I told you it wouldn’t so bad.”

“Rascal One, this is Genesis,” Patrick McLanahan radioed to Wayne Macomber. “You’ve got a couple vehicles headed your way, about ten minutes out.” Patrick had launched a small unmanned attack aircraft called an AGM-177 Wolverine, which had been brought in via the 767 freighter. It resembled a cross between a cruise missile and a surfboard. It was normally air-launched, but had the ability to be fired from a truck-mounted catapult. The Wolverine carried infrared and millimeter-wave imaging and targeting sensors so it could autonomously locate, attack, and reattack targets programmed for it. It had three internal weapons bays for attacks on different types of targets, and it could also attack a fourth target by flying into it kamikaze style. “Radar has a helicopter about ten minutes to the east,” he added. “We don’t know if it’s headed this way or just on patrol, but it’s close.”

“Copy, Genesis,” Macomber replied. He waved at the Humvees to move in. “C’mon, we’ve got company, get in there and help the egghead,” he ordered. “I want to be out of here ASAP.” The Humvees rolled in, and technicians began unloading power tools to start opening the plane up.

“I’ll be here all day at least, probably for the next two days,” Jon Masters radioed.

“Masters, I’m not here to cart the entire aircraft back to the base,” Macomber radioed back. “Grab any classified stuff and only the most essential black boxes that are intact, and let’s get out of here. We’re out in the open with three hundred Turkish soldiers coming for us and another fifty thousand in the area.” That reminder seemed to make everyone work a little quicker.

“That helicopter is definitely coming your way,” Patrick radioed. “About seven minutes out. The ground forces have increased in size—looks like six vehicles now, four troop carriers and two armored vehicles. How’s the plane look?”

“Masters says it doesn’t look that bad,” Whack said. “I think he’d say that if it was nothing but a smoking hole in the ground.”

“You’re right about that. Okay, they’re setting up roadblocks north and south on the highway, and all six vehicles are headed your way.”

“Copy.”

“No fighting unless it’s absolutely necessary, Rascal. We’re all still friends, remember.”

“I know. I’ve been extremely cordial and nice so far.”

“They should be in sight on the highway now.”

Wayne turned and saw the trucks unloading a total of about twenty troops with rifles, the armored vehicles on guard flanking the trucks and off-loading their own dismounts, and the same Captain Evren Jon spoke with at the front gate, scanning them with binoculars. “In sight. I see infantry weapons only so far. Rascal, this is One, we’ve got lookylous, stand by.” A few minutes later, Whack saw several soldiers and Captain Evren board their armored personnel carriers and slowly drive toward them. “Here they come.”

Evren’s APC stopped about thirty yards in front of Whack, and five soldiers dismounted, fanned out about six yards apart from one another, and lay prone on the ground with rifles raised. Whack noticed that the gunner’s cupola atop the APC was manned and the barrel of the 12.5-millimeter machine gun aimed right at him; there was also a Russian-made AT-3 “Sagger” antitank missile mounted on its launch rail, aimed at one of the Humvees. The second APC moved away, heading around Whack toward the XC-57.

“You!” Evren shouted in English. “Raise your hands and turn around!”

“Hayir,” Whack replied in Turkish via his electronic translator. “No. Leave us alone.”

“You are not permitted access to the plane.”

“We have permission from the Iraqi government and the plane’s owner,” Whack said. “This is a legal salvage operation. Leave us alone.”

“I repeat, raise your hands and turn around, or we will open fire.”

“I am an American, I’m not armed, and I have permission from the Iraqi government. You’re a Turkish soldier. I don’t take orders from you.”

Now Evren seemed to be confused. He pulled out his portable transceiver and spoke into it. “He’s obviously reached the limit of his rules of engagement,” Whack said over the command network. “Here’s where it’ll start getting interesting. Keep an eye on the second APC; it’s flanking me and heading your way.”

“Got it in sight, One,” came the reply from Charlie Turlock.

“The helicopter is about five minutes out, Rascal,” Patrick said.

“Copy. Let’s hope it’s just the TV news.” Whack thought for a moment. “I’m starting to get nervous about that machine gun and Sagger missile on this APC, guys,” he said. “Everyone, find some cover away from the Humvees.” Through his translator, he said, “Point your weapons away right now!”

“You will surrender immediately or we will open fire!” Evren shouted in return.

“I’m warning you, point your weapons away and leave us alone, or I’m going to rough you up,” Whack said. “I don’t care about this NATO ally shit—lower your weapons and go away or you’re all going to wake up in the hospital.”

Through the sensitive microphones built into the Tin Man suit, Whack heard Evren say the word ates. A three-round burst of rifle fire rang out, and all three rounds hit Macomber’s left thigh. “God bless it,” Macomber snarled. “The guy shot me in the damned leg.”

“He was only trying to wound you,” Charlie said. “Take it easy, Whack.”

Evren was obviously startled to see the figure still standing, even though he’d clearly seen all rounds hit. “One more warning, bub,” Whack shouted in Turkish. “If you don’t drop your weapons, I’m going to play a little tune on your skull with my fists.”

He heard Evren say, “Ohn ekee, bebe, sicak!” which meant, “The twelve and the baby, go hot,” and Whack radioed, “Take cover, knock out the APCs, now!” just as the gunner on the 12.5-millimeter machine gun opened fire.

With a blast of supercompressed air, Whack launched himself through the air and landed atop the armored vehicle. The gunner tried to follow him as he sailed at him, nearly knocking himself out of the cupola. After Whack landed, he bent the barrel of the machine gun until the weapon exploded from the pressure of unexpelled gases. But he wasn’t quick enough to stop the AT-3. The wire-guided missile flew off its launch rail and hit one of the Humvees, sending it flying through the air on a cloud of fire. “Everyone okay?” he radioed.

“Everyone was clear,” Jon Masters said. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Can I bust some heads now, General?” Macomber asked.

“I don’t want anyone hurt, Rascal, unless they go for Jon and the techs,” Patrick said. “Take their weapons only.”

“When are we going to knock off the ‘Kumbaya’ routine around here, sir?” Macomber asked half aloud. “Rascal Two, can you take out the twelve-point-five and the Sagger without hurting—” But at that moment there was a small explosion on top of the second APC, and the gunner jumped out of the cupola, beating sparks and small flames off his uniform. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Charlie said.

Whack was taking sustained rifle fire from the Turks as he jumped off the APC and walked over to Evren; they didn’t stop firing until Whack grasped Evren by his jacket and lifted him off the ground. “I asked you nicely to leave us alone,” Whack said. “Now I’m going to be not so nice, arkadas.” As easily as tossing a tennis ball, Whack threw Evren a hundred yards through the air, almost all the way back to the highway. He then raced over and did the same to the other Turkish soldiers around him who hadn’t run away. “Is that okay, Genesis?”

“Thank you for showing restraint, Rascal,” Patrick replied.

Macomber jumped over to the other APC, but the Turkish troops had already run off…because they got a look at Charlie Turlock, aboard a Cybernetic Infantry Device guarding the other side of the crash site. She carried her own electromagnetic rail gun and wore a forty-millimeter rocket launcher backpack containing eight vertically launched rockets with high-explosive, antipersonnel bomblet, and smoke warheads, plus a reload backpack in the Humvee. “Everything okay, Two?”

“I’m clear,” Charlie replied. She pointed to the east. “That helicopter is in sight. Looks like a standard-issue Huey. I see a door gunner but no other weapons.”

“If he points that gun anywhere near our guys, take it out.”

“I got him zeroed in already. Looks like a cameraman in the door with him. Smile—you’re on Candid Camera.”

“Just great. Masters…?”

“I don’t even have all the access doors open yet, Wayne,” Jon said. “I’ll need at least an hour just to find out what’s what. It shouldn’t take long to pull the major components and LRUs—maybe three hours, tops. But I’d like at least eight hours to—”

“I don’t know if you have eight minutes, let along eight hours, but get moving and we’ll hold them off as long as we can,” Whack said.

“Maybe if you’d help us, we’d be done quicker,” Jon suggested.

Whack sighed inside his armor. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he said. “Charlie, you got security. I’m going to be a mechanic for a while.”

“Roger. That helicopter is starting to orbit us. Looks like they’re taking pictures. The door gunner’s not tracking anything on the ground.”

“If it looks like he’s going to engage, nail him.”

“With pleasure.”

“We’re engineers, not mechanics,” Jon corrected him. “But you’ll be the demolition guy.”

“Well, that sounds more like it,” Whack said.

The president picked up the phone. “Hello, President Hirsiz. This is President Gardner. What can I do for you today?”

“You can call off your attack dogs for one, sir,” Kurzat Hirsiz said from Ankara, “unless you are looking for war.”

“You refer to the incident at the crash site north of Mosul?” Gardner asked. “As I understand it, three of your soldiers were injured and two armored vehicles were damaged. Is that accurate?”

“Have you an explanation for this deliberate attack?”

“You’ll have to talk with the Iraqi government. The United States government had nothing to do with it.”

“That is not the truth. Those…those things are American weapon systems. The whole world knows this.”

“The robot and the armored commando were experimental designs and they were never used directly by the U.S. government,” Gardner said, using the story he and his staff had conjured up the minute they got the call from Vice President Ken Phoenix from Nahla. “They belong to a private company that had been contracted by the U.S. Army to provide security for its forces in Iraq.”

“So they do work for the American government!”

“No, because after the incident with your reconnaissance plane, their contract with my government was immediately canceled,” Gardner said. “The company was then contracted by the Iraqi government. They were working for the Iraqis when that incident occurred. Frankly I don’t know why your troops were at that crash site to begin with. They weren’t looting the plane, were they?”

“I resent that implication, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Turkish soldiers are not criminals. The aircraft was involved in the downing of a Turkish jet and the killing of a Turkish pilot; the troops were merely guarding the plane until a formal inquiry could begin.”

“I see. You should have communicated your intentions better to the Iraqis and to us. But that would have been difficult in the middle of an invasion, wouldn’t it?”

“So is this your plan now, Mr. Gardner: let the Iraqis take the blame for American actions?”

“Mr. President, your forces are on Iraqi soil, bombing Iraqi villages and killing Iraqi civilians—”

“We target only PKK terrorists, sir, terrorists that kill innocent Turks!”

“I understand, sir, and I agree something needs to be done about the PKK, and the United States has pledged more assistance to Turkey for this. But we do not condone a full-scale ground invasion of Iraq. I warned you about unintended consequences.

“As for the contractors at Nahla: they are working for the Iraqis and not under our direct control, but we are still allies of Iraq and can intercede on your behalf. The United States would be happy to sit down with Turkey, the Kurdish Regional Government, and Iraq to facilitate an immediate cease-fire by all parties, including contractors; a withdrawal timetable; and more comprehensive security arrangements on the Iraq-Turkey border, including international monitors, to eliminate PKK terrorists from crossing the border. But nothing will happen while Turkish troops are engaged in combat operations inside Iraq, sir.”

“So, this is a conspiracy: America uses these robots against Turkish troops, pretends they are not involved, but then offers to be an intermediary in negotiations as long as there is a cease-fire,” Hirsiz said angrily. “Again, Turkey is the victim, forced to concede everything, pushed aside and ignored. Then no one notices when another Turkish plane is brought down or another police station blown apart.”

“Believe me, Mr. President, we want to help Turkey,” Gardner said. “Turkey is one of America’s most important friends and allies. I understand your anger. We can send in monitors, technology, even personnel to patrol the border. But nothing will happen while combat operations are ongoing. They must stop immediately, and Turkish troops must leave Iraq. There’s no other way.”

“There is only one way we will agree to international monitors along our border, Mr. Gardner: the Kurdistan Regional Government must disavow the PKK and all plans to form an independent state of Kurdistan,” Hirsiz said. “The KRG must remove its flag from all public places, arrest the PKK leaders and turn them over to us for trial, dismantle all PKK training bases, and shut down all companies that support the PKK.”

“Mr. President, what you’re asking for is impossible,” President Gardner said after a moment’s confusion. “The KRG administers the constitutionally authorized Kurdish region of northern Iraq. To my knowledge, they’ve never supported the PKK.”

“As long as the KRG exists and tries to separate its territory from the rest of Iraq, the PKK will use terrorism to try to force that into effect,” Hirsiz said. “You know as well as I that some members of the KRG leadership have businesses that secretly launder money and transport weapons and supplies from Iraq and overseas into Turkey. Many, not just Turkey, consider the Iraqi PKK a secret military wing of the KRG.”

“That’s nonsense, Mr. President,” Gardner insisted. “There is no relationship between the KRG and PKK.”

“They both want an independent Kurdistan carved out of provinces of Turkey, Iraq, Persia, and Syria,” Hirsiz said angrily. “The Kurdistan regional government obviously does not want to openly recognize a terrorist group like the PKK, so they support them in secret, and they oppose any efforts to shut them down. That will stop immediately! The KRG can administer the three Iraqi provinces of Dohuk, Irbil, and Sulaymaniyah, but they must do so without advocating an independent Kurdistan or trying to expand to the western provinces that have a Turkmen majority. Otherwise, our offensive continues.”

Joseph Gardner ran a hand over his face in frustration. “Then you’ll agree to negotiations, Mr. President?”

“No negotiations until the KRG agrees to stop supporting an independent Kurdistan state and agrees to denounce the PKK and bring its leaders to trial for crimes against humanity,” Hirsiz said. “If Baghdad and Irbil cannot get the PKK under control in Iraq and force them to stop killing innocent Turks, we will do the job. Good day, sir.” And he hung up.

The president slammed the phone down. “Humans shouldn’t be allowed to have this much fun,” he murmured. He turned to his advisers in the Oval Office. “Tell the KRG to stop all plans for independence?” He snapped his fingers. “Sure, we can do that. The only part of Iraq that has its shit together, and Hirsiz wants it shut down. Great.”

“But he opened the door to negotiations, sir,” chief of staff Walter Kordus said. “Always come in high and hope everyone meets somewhere in the middle.” The president gave him a sideways glance. “At least it’s a start at negotiations.”

“I guess you could call it that,” the president said. “Did you hear all that, Ken? Stacy?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Ken Phoenix said from Allied Air Base Nahla. “The Turkish air force is pounding the Iraqi northeastern provinces, especially Irbil and Dohuk provinces. I doubt if either the KRG or Baghdad will negotiate while the Turks are attacking their towns and villages.”

“NATO is meeting later today to discuss a resolution ordering Turkey to cease fire,” Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau said from Brussels, Belgium, the headquarters of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. “But the resolution has already been watered down to a request to cease fire. The Turks have a fair amount of support in the council here—they’re sympathetic about the continuous PKK attacks despite Turkey’s attempts to give the Kurds in Turkey more aid, a stronger voice in government, and fewer cultural and religious restrictions. I don’t think Turkey is going to get much pressure from NATO or the European Union.”

“They’re not getting much from Congress either,” the president said. “Most don’t understand the whole Kurdistan question, but they do understand terrorism, and right now they see the PKK as the problem. Turkey will eventually overstay in Iraq and public opinion will turn, especially if they try to widen the conflict.”

“And the last thing they need is a reason to widen the conflict…which brings me back to McLanahan,” Barbeau said acidly. “What in hell is he doing out there, Mr. Vice President?”

“He is apparently going to help the Iraqis defend themselves against the Turks,” Phoenix replied. “This mission out to his crashed plane was a test to see what the Turkish army would do. They seemed to do nothing until they went out to the crash site. The Turks were getting ready to move or dismantle the plane, and they tried to chase them away.”

“And McLanahan attacked.”

“I watched the images coming from a UAV over the scene,” Phoenix said, “and I listened to the audio as it was happening. McLanahan’s forces didn’t attack until the Turks did, and they even gave them a second warning after a soldier shot at the Tin Man commando. After it was obvious the Turks were going to attack the workers, the Tin Man and the CID unit went to work.”

“And now what’s happening?”

“Some of the Turks surrounding Nahla Air Base here deployed near the crash site,” Phoenix said. “Dr. Masters and his workers are still at the crash site recovering black boxes and classified equipment. McLanahan’s UAVs have detected some Turkish ground units en route, but they’re afraid the Turkish air force will attack. The Turks have flown helicopters near the site and shot a few mortars at them, trying to scare them into retreating.”

“You know, I don’t have much sympathy for McLanahan right now,” Gardner said. “He decided to twist the tiger’s tail, and now he might get his ass chewed off. We’re trying to find ways to de-escalate the conflict, and he just goes and finds new ways to escalate it.”

“We’ll find out what will happen next as soon as Masters starts to head back here to Nahla,” Phoenix said. “There’s about a hundred soldiers and six armored vehicles waiting for him on the highway, and I’ll bet they’re pissed.”

“I want our guys to stay out of it,” the president ordered. “No Americans get involved. This is McLanahan’s fight. If he gets his guys hurt or killed, it’s his fault.”

“We should contact the Turkish prime minister and urge restraint, sir,” Phoenix said. “McLanahan’s guys are outnumbered. Even with the Tin Man and CID out there, there’s no way they can fight through the Turkish army. The Turks are going to want some payback.”

“I hope McLanahan is smart enough not to try to take on the Turks,” the president said. “Stacy, contact Akas’s office again, explain the situation, and ask her to communicate to the Ministry of Defense for the army to hold back.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“McLanahan stepped in it big-time,” the president said as he turned to other business. “Unfortunately, it’s his guys that are going to suffer for it.”

“Incoming!” Charlie Turlock shouted. “Whack…?”

“I got it,” Wayne Macomber responded. He had had his electromagnetic rail gun out and ready ever since the first mortar shell had been fired toward them about an hour or so ago. Charlie Turlock’s millimeter wave radar system built into her CID robot scanned the skies around them for miles, allowing her to detect the projectiles and instantaneously transmit tracking and targeting information to Wayne’s targeting computers.

Charlie Turlock also carried her electromagnetic rail gun, but all of her projectiles had already been expended shooting down mortars and her reloads had been blown up when the Sagger destroyed the first Humvee. The forty-millimeter rockets in her backpack might not be fast enough to intercept the mortar shells, but Macomber’s rail gun was more than capable. He simply raised his rifle, using his suit’s powered exoskeleton like a precision aiming platform, and followed the tracking information relayed from the CID unit. He didn’t have to lead the mortar round very much—the electromagnetic rail gun projectiles flew a dozen times faster than a sniper rifle bullet and destroyed the round easily.

“Salvo!” Charlie shouted. “Four more inbound!”

“Bastards,” Whack muttered. That was the first time they’d fired more than one at a time. He hit all four easily, but now problems were developing. “I’m getting low on ammo—I’m on the last magazine, six more left,” he said. “I’m also going to need fresh batteries for the rifle and for me.”

One of the technicians ran over to the remaining Humvee, searched for a few moments, then ran over to Macomber. “No more fresh batteries left,” he said. “We’ll have to plug you in.”

“Swell,” Whack said. The tech unreeled a power cord from a storage hatch on the back of Macomber’s suit, ran it back to the Humvee, and plugged it into a power receptacle. “Charlie, you’re going to have to try intercepting any more rounds. I’m going to boost my power levels before we have to start moving out. I’ve got just enough juice in the gun to fire the last remaining projectiles.”

“Roger,” Charlie responded. “I haven’t seen any of those rounds explode, and the projected track shows them missing us. Maybe they’re not live rounds. They’re lobbing them in just to see what we’d do.”

“Glad we’re providing them with some entertainment,” Whack said. “Can you compute the firing location?”

“Already have. They haven’t moved it. I can take it out if you want, or drop a gas rocket on them.”

“I don’t want those guys riled up just yet, and we have to save ammo,” Whack said.

“Another helicopter inbound, guys,” Patrick McLanahan radioed. “Coming from Turkey this time, higher speed. Might be a gunship. About ten minutes out.”

“Copy,” Wayne Macomber replied. “Okay, Doc, time to pack it up.”

“Patrick said ten minutes? I’ll take that.”

“No, because in ten minutes we’ll be in range of whatever missiles or rockets that chopper might be carrying, and then it’ll be too late,” Whack said.

“All right,” Jon said dejectedly. “We got the laser radar and satellite comm boxes. I guess that’ll have to do. Too much stuff for one Humvee; we’ll have to put it all on the trailer.”

It didn’t take long for the group to pack up their equipment. Whack led the way, carrying his rail gun high so the Turkish soldiers could all see it. Charlie carried her spare backpack in her left armored hand and her empty electromagnetic rail gun in her right, hoping just the sight of it might scare some of the Turks. All the engineers squashed together in the surviving Humvee, and all their tools, equipment, and retrieved boxes were in the trailer.

“How long until our help arrives, General?” Whack asked on his secure command channel.

“They look like they’re changing formations, Whack,” Patrick asked. “Try to stall as long as you can.”

“What about that chopper?”

“Couple minutes more.”

“Those numbers aren’t matching, General,” Whack said grimly. On the Turkish command channel he had detected, he said, “Listen up, Captain Evren. We’re coming out. We don’t want a fight with you guys. We’re going to bring our stuff back into the base. Make way.”

“No, Americans,” Evren responded a moment later, the surprise that his radio channel was being used by the robots obvious in his voice. “You will be detained and that equipment confiscated. You assaulted members of my unit and myself. For this you must be punished.”

Whack stopped the convoy. “Captain, listen to me very carefully,” he said. “You know what we can do. What you might not know is that we have an unmanned aircraft circling overhead. If you don’t believe me, look up.” At that instant Patrick shut down and restarted the engine on the AGM-177 Wolverine he had orbiting over the area, which caused a streak of brown smoke to become visible for a few seconds. “That is an attack drone, and it can take out all of your armor and your men with guided bomblets. I’ll order it flown over your positions before we move in, and when it’s done we’ll take care of anyone that’s still standing. Now move aside.”

“I have my orders, American,” Evren said. “You will lay down your weapons and power off the robot and the drone and surrender. If you do not, we will attack.”

“Got an ID on that inbound chopper, Whack,” Charlie said. “Cobra gunship. More U.S. surplus. Can’t see his weapons but I’ll bet he’s loaded for bear.”

“Last chance, Captain,” Whack said. “Otherwise we start shooting. Move aside.”

“I will not. Surrender or be killed. In case you have not noticed, we have our own air support. It is not as advanced as your unmanned aircraft, but I assure you it is deadly. After it attacks, there will be nothing left of you for us to, as you say, take care of.”

“I’m going to have to take out that Cobra first, Charlie,” Whack said. “Watch my back—they’re bound to open fire when—”

Suddenly Charlie shouted, “Missile launch!”

“From where, Charlie?”

“Behind us!” Just then they heard a loud BANG! Whack and Charlie turned just in time to see a spiral of white smoke arc skyward and hit the Cobra. The helicopter started a hard right bank, seemed to wobble, then started a downward autorotational spin until it hit the ground in a hard but survivable crash.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Whack shouted on the Turkish command channel. On their discrete channel, he radioed, “I hope that was you, Jaffar.”

“Yes, Macomber,” Colonel Yusuf Jaffar responded on the discrete command channel. His northern battalion had hit the Cobra gunship with a Stinger shoulder-fired missile. “Sorry we are late, but I believe you are early. No matter. We are all here and ready to take on the Turks.”

“Hopefully no one will take on anyone here,” Whack said. He gave Jaffar the Turkish company’s frequency, then said on that channel, “The Cobra gunship was hit by an Iraqi antiaircraft missile, Captain Evren,” he said. “The Iraqi Nahla brigade is advancing on this position.” At that moment he could see the Turkish troops on the right start to fidget and rustle about; they had apparently gotten a visual on the northernmost battalion. “Captain Evren?”

After a somewhat long and uncomfortable pause: “Yes, American.”

“I don’t command the Iraqi army, and you did invade their country,” Whack said, “but my forces are not going to attack unless we are attacked first. I ask Colonel Jaffar not to attack as well. He is listening in. He is going to escort my team back to Nahla Air Base. I urge everyone to remain calm and keep your fingers off the trigger. Captain, if you would like to send a team out to inspect the downed Cobra, you may do so. Colonel Jaffar, would that be acceptable?”

“That would be acceptable,” Jaffar replied.

“Good. Captain, we’re on the move. Make way, and everyone be calm.”

It was quite an impressive sight. Off the main highway north of Nahla, the Tin Man and the CID robot, with their rail gun rifles now slung over their shoulders, led the Humvee towing the trailer full of parts and tools across the open field. The Turkish platoons were arrayed on either side of the highway in front of them. Coming in from the northwest was a full battalion of Iraqi infantry, and coming in on the highway northeast of the base was another Iraqi battalion. They all converged on the intersection of the two highways.

Wayne found Captain Evren at the side of the highway, stopped, and gave him a salute. The captain returned the salute, but kept his eyes on the spectacle of the ten-foot-tall CID unit striding up to him and rendering a salute as well. “My God…!”

“Charlie Turlock, Captain Evren,” Charlie said, holding out a large armored hand after lowering her salute. “How are you? Thanks for not shooting.”

Evren was stunned by the robot’s flexibility and lifelike movements. It took him several long amusing moments to take the robot’s hand and shake it. “It…it is a machine, but it moves like a man…!”

“A woman, if you don’t mind,” Charlie said.

Colonel Jaffar approached a few minutes later. Evren rendered a salute, but Jaffar didn’t return it. “So, you command this company, Turk?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Evren, Siyah Company, Forty-first Security—”

“I do not care who you are or what unit you are with, Turk,” Jaffar said. “All I care about is when you will return home and leave my country in peace.”

“That depends on when Iraq stops protecting murderous Kurds that drive bomb trucks into police buildings and kill innocent Turks, sir!”

“I am not here to listen to your political tirades, Turk! I need to know when you will move your goons out of my country!”

Whack glanced at Charlie. She didn’t have to move much, but a ten-foot-tall robot just raising its armored hands in surrender was plenty to get everyone’s attention. “Can’t we all just get along?” she said. She clasped her hands to her cheek. “Pretty please?” The sight of the big combat robot acting like a shy schoolgirl made even the gruff Colonel Jaffar chuckle, and hundreds of soldiers, Turks and Iraqis alike, joined in the laughter.

“This is not the time or place for an argument, guys,” Whack said. “Why don’t we take this back to the base? It’s almost dinnertime, if I’m not mistaken. Why don’t we all sit down, have a meal, and take a load off?”

“Where’s my damned air?” General Besir Ozek shouted. “They’re ten minutes late!” He grabbed the microphone out of the communications officer’s hand. “Resim, this is Sican One. Your squadron had better get their shit together or I’m coming back up there to kick your ass!”

Ozek was in the cab of an ACV-300 command post vehicle, part of headquarters company of Third Division, which was smashing through eastern Iraq. Ozek’s forces were ordered to proceed only as far as Irbil Northwest Airport, seize it for resupply and to cut off trade and commerce to the Kurdistan capital, and hold, but he had ordered a mechanized infantry battalion to proceed to the outskirts of the city itself.

The battalion had established a security perimeter in a large area that had been cleared of older buildings to make room for newer high-rise housing, northwest of the city itself. He had good visibility all around him for any signs of counterattack from peshmerga, PKK, regular Iraqi forces, or the Americans; so far none of those fighting organizations had meaningfully threatened his army, but it was better to be safe than sorry. The peshmerga was the biggest threat. Reports differed as to the size of the peshmerga, but even the most optimistic estimate made them twice as large as the four divisions Ozek had at his command, and they had some armor as well.

And there had been reports of growing resistance in Iraq. Like good rats, the PKK was deep in hiding, of course, but the Americans were starting to become restless, and the Iraqi units that had mysteriously disappeared right before the invasion were starting to pop up. Ozek had heard some reports of contact with American and Iraqi forces near Mosul, but no word on any casualties so far.

Ozek picked the area for other reasons as well: he was just north of Sami Abdul Rahman Park, a memorial park for a slain Kurdistan Regional Government official and PKK sympathizer; he was also well within mortar range of the parliament building of the Kurdistan Regional Government, so the Kurdish politicians should be able to get a good look at his army advancing on their city.

Ozek exited the command post vehicle and shouted, “Major!” A very young-looking infantry major stepped quickly over to him. “Our air is late, so you’ll have to continue for a few more minutes.”

“We’ve dropped on every target in the list, sir,” the battalion commander said. “We’ve reattacked the top ten on the list.”

Ozek pulled a slip of paper out of his jacket. “I made up a new list. The defense ministry was talking about targeting businesses in Irbil that support the PKK…well, until they give me the official go-ahead, I found a bunch of them myself. Those are their addresses. Find them on the map and drop.”

The major studied the list, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Uh, sir, this address is inside the Citadel.”

“I know that,” Ozek said. “It’s a bazaar that has shops owned by some of the same guys we’ve already been bombarding. Why should they be left out?”

“But it’s inside the Citadel, sir,” the major repeated. The Citadel of Irbil was an ancient stone wall in the center of the city encircling the archaeological ruins of the original city, which dated back to 2300 B.C. Although the city had been occupied by many nations over the centuries, the Citadel had been considered sacred ground to all of them, and some sections of it were a thousand years old. “What if we hit the archaeological sites?”

“I’m not worried about a few mud huts and cart paths,” Ozek said. “I can look out there and see a Kurdistan flag flying from inside that place, so I know the PKK hides out there. I want those shops brought down. Do it.”

“With respect, sir,” he major said, “our job is to root out the PKK. They may run and hide in the cities, but they don’t live in Irbil. Our scouts and counterintelligence units tell us the peshmerga have been shadowing us, but they haven’t dared make contact. We shouldn’t give them a reason to do so. We’ve already shelled targets in the city; bombing the Citadel might be the last straw.”

“I understand you are afraid of the peshmerga, Major,” Ozek said. “I’ve encountered them more than once in my career in the border areas. They are good in the mountains and the outback, but they are nothing but glorified guerrilla fighters. They’re not going to come after a regular army unit in a frontal assault. They have never fought as anything other than tribal enforcers. They’re just as likely to fight each other as us. In fact, I would welcome the chance to get a few of their battalions to engage us—destroy a few of their braver units, and the whole Kurdistan conglomeration might fold once and for all.”

“Yes, sir,” the major said, “but may I recommend we fire only smoke into the Citadel? You know how some revere that place, especially in the Kurdish region. They—”

“I don’t need a history lesson from you, Major,” Ozek snapped. “Get going on that list immediately. Same procedures as before: smoke to disperse the residents and mark for accuracy, high explosive to bring down the roofs, and white phosphorus to burn the place down. Get on it.”

Just as he dismissed the artillery commander with a wave of his hand, a soldier ran up to him and saluted. “Gunship is moving into position, sir.”

“About damned time.” He went back to the command post vehicle and grabbed the radio microphone. “Resim One-Eight, this is Sican One, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear, Sican,” the pilot of the AC-130H Spectre gunship reported. “One minute to on station.”

“Show me Tango One,” Ozek said. A television monitor flared to life, showing the sensor image being transmitted from the gunship. It showed a wide-angle image of the southern part of Irbil, about eight hundred yards south of the Citadel. The sensor operator switched to narrow field of view and zoomed into an overhead view of the Irbil bazaar. He followed the main highway south along the edge of the bazaar until crossing a major avenue, then started counting buildings as he continued south. “Just south of the bakery, north of the apartment building…that’s the one,” Ozek radioed. The sensor operator had locked onto the headquarters of the Masari Bank of Kurdistan, one of the largest banks in northern Iraq…and widely known to support the PKK through money laundering, international money exchange, and collecting donations around the world.

“Resim is locked and ready, Sican,” the pilot reported. The AC-130 began a left orbit around the target, with a side-mounted heads-up display and Instrument Landing System–like director needles showing the pilot exactly where to position the plane.

“Proceed, “Ozek said, then stepped out of the command vehicle and looked to the southeast. This was his first time seeing an AC-130 attack in person…

…and he felt a little disappointed. Most AC-130 attacks take place in darkness, where the muzzle flashes of the aircraft’s 40-millimeter cannon and 105-millimeter howitzer lit up the night like nothing else. He saw the howitzer round hit and a column of smoke arch into the sky before he heard the BOOM! of the gun and the explosion on the ground, and he wished he had stayed to watch the hit on the screen—he was going to have to wait for the video replay.

He went back to the command vehicle and looked at the sensor image. Smoke still mostly obscured the view, but the bank building looked obliterated, as did parts of the bakery and apartment building facing the bank. The precision of that gunship was amazing—that shot was from over twenty thousand feet overhead!

“Looks like a good shot, Resim,” Ozek radioed. “No signs of antiaircraft response. If you’re good to go, we’ve got quite a few targets on our list. We’ll be firing some mortar rounds from our position into the north part of the city; they should be no factor for you. Let’s have a look at Tango Two.”

“It’s the first encounter with an Iraqi military unit,” Minister of National Defense Hasan Cizek said as he entered President Kurzat Hirsiz’s office. “Report from Tall Kayf, north of Mosul. The brigade based at Nahla has reappeared and reoccupied their base.”

“Any contact with our forces?” Hirsiz asked.

“Yes, sir. A helicopter pilot and a crewmember were injured when his aircraft was shot down by an Iraqi man-portable air defense missile.”

Hirsiz waited, but that was all Cizek had to report. “That’s it? No other casualties? What about the Iraqis?”

“No casualties, sir.”

“What did they do, throw water balloons at each other? What do you mean, no casualties?”

“They didn’t fight, sir,” Cizek said. “Our unit let the Iraqis and the American engineers who were out at their reconnaissance plane back into Nahla Air Base.”

“They let them back in? The Americans, too? I ordered that plane dismantled and brought back to Turkey! The Americans were allowed back onto the base with parts from the plane?”

“The unit commander was going to stop them, but the armored commando and the robot threatened retaliation with their weapons and from an orbiting unmanned aircraft. Then the Iraqi brigade arrived. The unit commander saw he was outnumbered and decided not to engage. The Iraqis and Americans did not engage as well. They went into the base, and the security unit went back to their posts.”

The anger Hirsiz felt at having his orders ignored quickly subsided, and he nodded. “That was probably a good decision on the commander’s part,” he said. “Send a ‘well done’ to his parent unit.”

“Our unit there reports the Americans launched an unmanned combat aircraft to support their detail examining the plane,” Cizek said. “The American private security chief, McLanahan, explained it was a long-range loitering aircraft capable of releasing multiple types of precision and area munitions. It was apparently brought in on that Boeing 767 freighter that evaded our interceptors.”

“McLanahan. Yes,” Cizek said. “He is the wild card in all of this. Remember he commanded a very advanced bomber unit in the United States Air Force, and he was known for quite daring and successful operations—many of which were apparently done without official sanction, if we can believe the American media pundits. Now apparently he works for the Iraqis. I would guess if he says he has a cruise missile, he does, and probably more than one. The question is: As a tool of the Iraqis now, would he use it against us?”

“Hopefully we’ll never find out,” Cizek said. “I would have liked to get a look at that reconnaissance aircraft, though. The American secretary of state said our plane was disabled by a laser self-defense system, not a radiation weapon. That had to be a powerful laser. If we could get a peek at that system and cross-engineer it, we’d be decades ahead of most European and all of the Middle Eastern armies.”

“I agree,” Hirsiz said. “Have another try at bringing that plane back to Turkey. Fly as many troops as you can in tonight by helicopter. Send the entire First Division in if you have to. They don’t seem to be having any trouble in their area of responsibility; it’s the Kurdish regions that have me concerned, not the Arab ones.”

“But what about the Iraqi Nahla brigade?”

“Let’s see if they want to risk a fight over the American plane,” Hirsiz said. “I think they might think twice. We may have to deal with the American robot and armored commando, but how many of those things could they have? Let’s find out. I think the plane and its technology will be worth it.”

“We have more information about the robot and the armored commando; we won’t be as surprised as our smaller unit was, and we’ll be on the lookout for their supposed unmanned attack plane,” Cizek said. An aide hurried in with a message and handed it to him. “I was able to get some details about the plane, the XC-57,” he said as he read. “It was in a next-generation bomber competition but was not selected, so it was converted into a…lanet olsun!” he swore.

“What?”

“Third Brigade shelled Irbil,” Cizek said, dumbfounded. Hirsiz did not react. “General Ozek, in personal charge of a mortar battalion, moved to the outskirts of Irbil less than a mile from the Kurdistan parliamentary building and started firing mortars into the city,” he went on. “He even fired shells into the Citadel, the ancient city center. For the targets he couldn’t reach with mortars, he called in an AC-130 gunship and destroyed numerous targets in the south of the city with heavy cannon fire from above!”

Instead of anger or surprise, Hirsiz smiled and sat back in his seat. “Well well, it seems our skeleton-faced berserker has made the decision to strike at Irbil for us,” he said.

“But how—” Cizek stopped, the concern spreading across his face. “The proposed target list the intelligence directorate drew up…?”

“I gave it to Ozek,” Hirsiz said. “He did exactly what I was hoping he’d do.” The look of concern on Cizek’s face turned into one of sheer disbelief. “The Security Council was undecided if we should escalate the conflict by attacking the capital of the Kurdistan Regional Government; Ozek has done it for us.”

“This is a serious matter, sir,” Cizek said. “Irbil is a city of a million people. Even with precision firepower—which mortars are definitely not—innocent civilians will get hurt. And the big howitzer on those AC-130 can destroy an entire building with one shot!”

“A few civilian casualties will only help us,” Hirsiz said. “This battle has been too easy, too sterile. The PKK and the Iraqi army run and hides, the peshmerga stay out of reach, the Americans lock the gates to their bases, and the Iraqi people turn on their televisions and watch us roll down their streets. It’s not a war, it’s a parade…until now.” He then wore a worried expression. “Ozek didn’t hit any schools or hospitals, did he?”

Cizek called for a more precise list of targets struck and received them a few minutes later. “A Kurdish bank…a small shopping center…some shops inside the Citadel…a memorial park…one mortar even landed near the parliament building in a parking lot, close enough to break some windows—”

“That was on the list—the parking space of a pro-PKK politician,” Hirsiz said. “He followed the list to the letter. The Citadel hit…that was his idea, but he got the idea from that list. I’m sure the shop was owned by the same businessman that owned the other shops in the city on the list. Ozek is scary and a little crazy, but he’s a fast learner.”

“The Security Council was undecided on attacking Irbil because we wanted to see the reaction of the world first as the operation progressed,” Cizek said. “Up until now, the reaction has been very quiet…remarkably quiet. A few cries of outrage, mostly from militant Muslim groups and human rights organizations. It was tacit approval of what we are doing. But now we’ve attacked the Iraqi people, the Kurds, directly. You should have sought the approval of the Security Council before ordering this, Kurzat!”

“I didn’t order anything, Hasan,” Hirsiz said. The minister of national defense looked unconvinced. “Don’t believe me if you wish, but I did not order Ozek to shell Irbil. I gave him the list, that’s all. But I knew he would not disappoint.” He looked at his watch. “I suppose I should call Washington and explain things to them.”

“You’re going to tell them a rogue general did those attacks?”

“I’m going to tell them exactly what happened: we had discussed attacking businesses and organizations known to be friendly to the PKK, and one of our division commanders took it upon himself to do just that.” Hirsiz waved a hand at Cizek’s disbelieving expression and lit a cigarette. “Besides, you and the rest of the council have deniability now as well. If it doesn’t bring the Americans and the Iraqis around to helping us, you can blame it all on Ozek and me.” He turned serious once more. “Make sure Ozek pulls back to the airport. If we give him too much encouragement, he’s likely to try to take the entire city.”

“Yes, sir,” Cizek said. “And we will get Second Division moving on that American aircraft.”

“Very good.” Hirsiz picked up a telephone. “I’ll call Gardner and set the stage with him, and let him vent about the attack on Irbil.”

“Just got off the phone with the president,” Vice President Ken Phoenix said as he entered the Tank. Colonel Jack Wilhelm was at his console in the front of the senior staff area, but beside him—in the real commander’s chair—was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar. The Tank was very crowded, because both an American and an Iraqi now manned every combat staff console in the room. Also in the room were Patrick McLanahan, Wayne Macomber, and Jon Masters. “He spoke with President Hirsiz of Turkey and President Rashid of Iraq.

“First of all, he wanted me to give you a ‘job well done’ for your actions today. He said that although he didn’t feel the risk was worth it, he commends all of you for exercising restraint and courage. It was an explosive situation and you handled it well.”

“I spoke with President Rashid as well,” Jaffar said, “and he wished me to pass along similar thoughts to all.”

“Thank you, Colonel. However, we still have a situation. Turkey wants access to the wreckage of the XC-57 to gather evidence for a criminal trial against Scion Aviation International. They are asking permission for experts to examine the aircraft, including the stuff you removed from the plane, Dr. Masters.”

“That stuff is classified and proprietary, Mr. Vice President,” Jon said. “Letting the Turks examine it gives them a chance to reverse-engineer it. That’s the reason we risked our lives yanking that stuff out of there! They don’t care about a trial—they just want my technology. No way I’m letting the Turks get their grubby paws on it!”

“You might not have any choice, Dr. Masters,” Phoenix said. “Scion was a U.S. government contractor at the time of the attack. The government may be entitled to direct you to turn the equipment over.”

“I’m not a lawyer, sir, and I don’t particularly like them, but I know armies of them,” Jon said. “I’ll let them handle it.”

“I’m more concerned about what the Turks will do, Mr. Vice President,” Patrick said.

“I’m sure they’ll go to the World Court or to NATO, possibly to the International Admiralty Court, file the criminal charges, and try to compel you to—”

“No, sir, I don’t mean a legal proceeding. I mean, what will the Turkish army do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sir, do you expect the Turkish army to just forget everything that’s happened here today?” Patrick replied. “They have twenty thousand troops spread out between the border and Mosul, and fifty thousand troops within a day’s march of here. This is the first defeat they’ve suffered in their Iraqi operation. I think Jon’s right: they want the systems on that plane, and I think they’re going to come back and take it.”

“They would not dare!” Jaffar exclaimed. “This is not their country, it is mine. They will not do whatever they please!”

“We’re trying to prevent this conflict from escalating, Colonel,” Vice President Phoenix said. “Frankly, I think we got lucky out there today. We caught the Turks flat-footed with the Tin Man and CID units. But if Jaffar’s brigade hadn’t shown up when it did, or if the Turks decided to attack right away instead of waiting for instructions, the results could’ve been a lot worse.”

“We would’ve handled them just fine, sir,” Wayne Macomber said.

“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Macomber, but I disagree,” Phoenix said. “You told me yourself you were low on ammo and power. I appreciate the fear factor involved in the Tin Man and CID, but those Turkish troops had marched almost two hundred miles inside Iraq. They weren’t going to run.” Whack lowered his eyes and said nothing in response; he knew the vice president was right.

“Mr. Vice President, I think General McLanahan may be correct,” Jaffar said. “I do not know about these classified things that Dr. Masters speaks of, but I do know generals in the field, and they do not take defeat well. We pushed around a small security unit today and made them back off, but they outnumber us here.

“The Turks have two brigades surrounding Mosul and deployed to the south of us,” Jaffar went on. “The Iraqi army has sufficient units in hiding to contain them, if that becomes necessary. But my brigade is the only significant force facing the two Turkish brigades to our north. That is where I will concentrate my forces and prepare for any action by the Turks.” He stood and put on his helmet. “General McLanahan, you will deploy your reconnaissance aircraft and ground teams to the northern approach sectors, as far north as you can go without making contact, and warn of any advances by the Turks.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Patrick said. “I’m also concerned about the Turkish air forces, particularly the Second Tactical Air Force’s F-15Es, A-10s, and AC-130 gunships based in Diyarbakir. If they decide to bring them in, they could decimate our forces.”

“What do you propose, Patrick?” Vice President Phoenix asked.

“Sir, you have to convince President Gardner that we need surveillance of Diyarbakir and a plan to respond should the Turks launch a massive attack against us.” Patrick produced a Secure Digital memory card in a plastic case. “This is my proposed reconnaissance schedule and attack plan. Our primary reconnaissance platform is a constellation of microsatellites that Sky Masters Incorporated can place in orbit to provide continuous coverage of Turkey. They can be launched within hours. The attack plan centers around using specialized modules in our XC-57 aircraft that can disrupt and destroy the command and control facilities at Diyarbakir.”

“I thought the XC-57 was just a transport and reconnaissance plane, Patrick,” Phoenix said with a knowing smile.

“Until we attack Diyarbakir, sir, that’s all it is,” Patrick said. “The attack will be with a combination of netrusion—network intrusion—to confuse and overload their networks, followed by high-power microwave weapons to destroy the electronics aboard any operating aircraft or facility. We can follow up with bomber attacks if necessary.”

“Bomber attacks?”

“The Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron,” Patrick said. “It’s a small B-1B Lancer bomber unit formed by an engineering group in Palmdale, California, that takes planes in flyable storage and makes them operational again. They currently have seven bombers deployed to the United Arab Emirates. They’ve been used to fly contingency support missions for Second Regiment and other Army units in Iraq.”

“Are they an Air Force unit, Patrick?”

“They have an Air Force designation, I believe they’re organized under Air Force Matériel Command, and they’re commanded by an Air Force lieutenant colonel,” Patrick replied, “but most of the members are civilians.”

“Is the entire military being taken over by contractors, Patrick?” Phoenix asked wryly. He nodded somberly. “I don’t like the idea of bombing Turkey, even if they strike at us directly, but if that’s the final option, it sounds sufficiently small and powerful to do the job without causing a world war to break out between NATO allies.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir.”

“I’ll present your plan to Washington, Patrick,” Phoenix said, “but let’s hope we don’t go anywhere near that level of escalation.” He turned to the Iraqi commander. “Colonel Jaffar, I know this is your country and your army, but I urge you to practice the same restraint you showed today. We don’t want to get into a shooting war with the Turks. This business with the classified boxes from that wreckage is of no consequence if lives are at stake.”

“With respect, sir, you are wrong two ways,” Jaffar said. “As I said, I do not know or care about black boxes. But this is not about black boxes—this is about a foreign army invading my home. And I did not practice restraint with the Turks today. We had them outnumbered; there was no reason to fight unless they chose to do so. They were the ones who showed restraint, not I. But if the Turks do return, they will come in large numbers, and then we will fight. General McLanahan, I expect a briefing on your deployment plan within the hour.”

“I’ll be ready, Colonel,” Patrick said.

“Excuse me, sir, but I must prepare my troops for battle,” Jaffar said, bowing to Vice President Phoenix. “Colonel Wilhelm, I must thank you for keeping Nahla secure in my absence. May I rely on you and your men to keep Nahla secure as we deploy, as you already have?”

“Of course,” Wilhelm said. “And I’d like to attend your deployment briefings, if I could.”

“You are always welcome, Colonel. You will be notified. Good night.” And Jaffar departed, with Patrick, Wayne, and Jon behind him.

“You still think this is a good idea, General?” Wilhelm asked before they left. “Jaffar’s fighting for his country. What are you fighting for now? The money?”

Jaffar froze, and they could see him clench and unclench his fists and straighten his back in indignation, but he did not do or say anything. But Patrick stopped and turned to Wilhelm. “You know what, Colonel?” Patrick said with a slight smile. “The Iraqis haven’t paid me a dime. Not one dime.” And he departed.