Rogue Forces

CHAPTER TWO

“Close the damn door before I start bawling like a damned baby,” Kurzat Hirsiz, president of the Republic of Turkey, said, wiping his eyes once again before putting away his handkerchief. He shook his head. “One of the dead was a two-year-old. Completely innocent. Probably couldn’t even pronounce ‘PKK.’”

Thin, oval-faced, and tall, Hirsiz was a lawyer, academic, and expert on macroeconomics as well as the chief executive of the Republic of Turkey. He’d served for many years as an executive director of the World Bank and lectured around the world on economic solutions for the developing world before being appointed prime minister. Popular throughout the world as well as in his homeland, he’d received the largest percentage of the vote of the members of the Grand National Assembly in the country’s history when he was elected president.

Hirsiz and his top advisers had just returned from a press conference in Çancaya, the presidential compound in Ankara. He had read the list of names of the dead that had been given to him a few moments before the televised briefing, and had then taken some questions. When he was told by a reporter that one of the dead was a toddler, he suddenly broke down, openly weeping, and abruptly ended the presser. “I want the names, phone numbers, and some details about all the victims. I will call them personally after this meeting,” Hirsiz’s aide picked up the phone to issue the orders. “I will attend each of the families’ services as well.”

“Don’t feel embarrassed breaking down like that, Kurzat,” Ayşe Akas, the prime minister, said. Her eyes were red as well, although she was known in Turkey for her personal and political toughness, something to which her two ex-husbands would certainly attest. “It shows you’re human.”

“I can just hear the PKK bastards laughing at the sight of me crying in front of a roomful of reporters,” Hirsiz said. “They win twice. They take advantage of both a lapse in security procedures and a lapse in control.”

“It just solidifies what we have been telling the entire world for almost three decades—the PKK is and always will be nothing but murderous slime,” General Orhan Sahin, secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council, interjected. Sahin, an army general, coordinated all military and intelligence activities between Çancaya, the military headquarters at Baskanligi, and Turkey’s six major intelligence agencies. “It is the most devastating and dastardly PKK attack in many years, since the cross-border attacks of 2007, and by far the most daring. Fifteen dead, including six on the ground; fifty-one injured—including the commander of the Jandarma himself, General Ozek—and the tanker aircraft a complete loss.”

The president returned to his desk, loosened his tie, and lit a cigarette, the signal for everyone else in the office to do so as well. “What is the status of the investigation, General?” Hirsiz asked.

“Well under way, Mr. President,” Sahin said. “The initial reports are disturbing. One of the deputy heads of security for the airport has not responded to orders to return to his post and cannot be located. I’m hoping he’s just on vacation and will check in soon after he hears the news, but I’m afraid we’ll find it was an inside job.”

“My God,” Hirsiz muttered. “The PKK infiltrates into our units and offices higher and higher every day.”

“I think it is a very good possibility that PKK agents have infiltrated into the very office of the Jandarma, the organization tasked with defending the country against those murderous bastards,” Sahin said. “My guess is that Ozek’s travel plans were leaked and the PKK targeted that plane specifically to kill him.”

“But you told me Ozek was going to Diyarbakir on a surprise inspection!” Hirsiz exclaimed. “Is it possible they’ve infiltrated so deeply and are organized so well that they can dispatch a kill squad with a shoulder-fired antiaircraft missile so quickly?”

“It has to be an inside job, but not just one man—that base must be infested with insurgents in deep cover, in highly trusted positions, ready to be activated and deployed within hours with specific attacks tasks.”

“It’s a level of sophistication we’ve dreaded but have been expecting, sir,” General Abdullah Guzlev, chief of staff of the Turkish military forces, said. “It’s time we reacted in kind. We can’t be content to just play defense, sir. We need to go after the leadership of the PKK and wipe them out once and for all.”

“In Iraq and Iran, I suppose, General?” Prime Minister Akas asked.

“That’s where they hide, Madam Prime Minister, like the cowards they are,” Guzlev snapped. “We’ll get an update from our undercover operatives, find a few nests with as many of the murderous bastards as possible in them, and eliminate them.”

“Exactly what will that accomplish, General,” Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat asked, “except further angering our neighbors, the world community, and our supporters in the United States and Europe?”

“Excuse me, Minister,” Guzlev said angrily, “but I’m not much concerned about what someone on another continent thinks while innocent men, women, and children are being murdered by—”

Guzlev was interrupted by a ringing telephone, which was answered immediately by the president’s chief of staff. The aide looked dumbstruck as he put down the receiver. “Sir, General Ozek is in your outer office and wishes to speak to the national security staff!”

“Ozek! I thought he was in serious condition!” Hirsiz exclaimed. “Yes, yes, get him in here immediately, and bring a corpsman to monitor him at all times.”

It was almost painful to look at the man when he stepped into the office. His right shoulder and the right side of his head were heavily bandaged, several fingers on both hands were taped together, he walked with a limp, his eyes were puffy, and the parts of his face and neck that were visible were covered in cuts, burns, and bruises—but he was upright, and he refused any assistance from the Çancaya corpsman who arrived for him. Ozek stood at wobbly attention at the doorway and saluted. “Permission to speak to the president, sir,” he said, his voice hoarse from breathing burning jet fuel and aluminum.

“Of course, of course, General. Get off your feet and sit, man!” Hirsiz exclaimed.

The president led Ozek over to the sofa, but the Jandarma commander held up a hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must stand. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up again,” Ozek said.

“What are you doing here, General?” Prime Minister Akas asked.

“I felt it necessary to show the people of Turkey that I was alive and doing my duties,” Ozek said, “and I wanted the national security staff to know that I have formulated a plan for a retaliatory strike at the PKK leadership. Now is the time to act. We must not delay.”

“I am impressed by your dedication to our country and your mission, General,” the prime minister said, “but first we must—”

“I have a full brigade of ozel tim loaded and ready to deploy immediately.” Ozel tim, or Special Teams, was the unconventional warfare branch of the Jandarma’s intelligence department, specially trained to operate close to or in many cases within Kurdish towns and villages to identify and neutralize insurgent leaders. They were some of the best-trained commandos in the world—and they had an equally notorious reputation for brutality.

“Very good, General,” Hirsiz said, “but have you discovered who is behind the attack? Who is the leader? Who pulled the trigger? Who ordered this attack?”

“Sir, that hardly matters,” Ozek said, his eyes widening in surprise that he had to answer such a question. His intense eyes and rather wild-looking features, along with his wounds, made him look anxious and excitable, almost savage, especially compared to the other politicians around him. “We have a long list of known PKK insurgents, bomb makers, smugglers, financiers, recruiters, and sympathizers. Internal security and the Border Defense Forces can pick up the usual suspects and conduct interrogations—let me and ozel tim go after the ringleaders.”

President Hirsiz averted his eyes from the fiery general. “Another attack inside Iraq…I don’t know, General,” he said, shaking his head. “This is something that needs to be discussed with the American and Iraqi governments. They must—”

“Pardon me for saying so, sir, but both governments are ineffectual and care nothing for Turkish security,” General Ozek said angrily. “Baghdad is perfectly willing to let the Kurds do whatever they please as long as the oil revenues flow south. The Americans are pulling out of Iraq as fast as they can. Besides, they have never lifted a finger to stop the PKK. Even though they rail on and on about the global war on terror and have labeled the PKK a terrorist outfit, except for occasionally tossing us a few photos or phone intercepts, they haven’t done a damn thing to help us.”

Hirsiz fell silent, worriedly puffing on his cigarette. “Besir is right, sir,” Guzlev, the military chief of staff, said. “This is the time we have been waiting for. Baghdad is clinging by its fingernails to keep its government intact; they don’t have the power to secure their own capital, much less the Kurdish frontier. America has stopped replacing combat brigades in Iraq. There are just three brigades in the north of Iraq, centered on Irbil and Mosul—almost no one on the border.”

Guzlev paused, noting no opposition to his comments, then added, “But I suggest more than just Special Teams involvement, sir.” He looked at the defense minister, Hasan Cizek, and National Security Council secretary-general Sahin. “I propose a full-scale invasion of northern Iraq.”

“What?” President Hirsiz exclaimed. “Are you joking, General?”

“Out of the question, General,” Prime Minister Akas immediately added. “We would be condemned by our friends and the entire world!”

“To what end, General?” Foreign Minister Hamarat asked. “We send in thousands of troops to root out a few thousand PKK rebels? Do you propose we occupy Iraqi territory?”

“I propose a buffer zone, sir,” Guzlev said. “The Americans helped Israel set up a buffer zone in southern Lebanon that was effective in keeping Hezbollah fighters out of Israel. We should do the same.”

Hirsiz looked at his defense minister, silently hoping for another voice of opposition. “Hasan?”

“It’s possible, Mr. President,” the defense minister said, “but it would not be a secret and it would be hugely expensive. The operation would take a fourth of our entire military force, perhaps up to a third, and it would certainly entail calling up the reserve forces. It would take months. Our actions would be seen by all—first of all by the Americans. Whether we are successful depends on how the Americans react.”

“General Sahin?”

“The Americans are in the process of an extended drawdown of forces throughout Iraq,” the secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council said. “Because it is relatively quiet and the Kurdish autonomous government is better organized than the central government in Baghdad, northern Iraq has perhaps twenty thousand American troops still in the region, assisting in guarding oil pipelines and facilities. They are scheduled to go down to just two combat brigades within a year.”

“Two combat brigades—for all of northern Iraq? That doesn’t seem realistic.”

“The Stryker brigades are very potent weapon systems, sir, very fast and agile—they should not be underestimated,” Sahin warned. “However, sir, we expect the Americans to employ private contractors to supply most of the surveillance, security, and support services. This falls in line with President Joseph Gardner’s new policy of resting and restoring ground forces while he increases the size and power of their Navy.”

“Then it is possible, sir,” Defense Minister Cizek said. “The Iraqi Kurds’ peshmerga forces have the equivalent of two infantry divisions and one mechanized division, centered on Mosul, Irbil, and the Kirkuk oil fields—a third of the size of our forces that are within marching distance of the border. Even if the PKK has the equivalent of a full infantry division, and the United States throws their entire ground forces against us, we are still at parity—and, as Suntzu wrote, if your forces are of equal strength: attack. We can do this, Mr. President.”

“We can mobilize our forces within three months, with ozel tim scouting enemy positions and preparing to disrupt the private contractors performing surveillance on the border region,” General Ozek added. “The mercenaries hired by the Americans are there only to earn money. If a fight is brewing, they will run for cover and hide behind regular military forces.”

“And what if the Americans stand and fight to help the Kurds?”

“We push south and crush the rebel camps and Kurdish opposition forces until the Americans threaten action, then pull back in contact and set up our buffer zone,” Ozek said. “We have no desire to fight the Americans, but we will not allow them to dictate the terms of our sovereignty and security.” He turned to Foreign Minister Hamarat. “We convince them a no-fly, no-drive buffer zone, patrolled by the United Nations, will enhance security for all parties. Gardner doesn’t want a ground war, and he certainly doesn’t care about the Kurds. He’ll agree to anything as long as it stops the fighting.”

“That may be true, but Gardner will never admit that publicly,” Hamarat said. “He will openly condemn us and demand a full withdrawal from Iraq.”

“Then we stall for time while we root out all the PKK rat’s nests and wire the border region for sound,” Ozek said. “With six divisions in northern Iraq, we can scour the place clean in just a few months while we promise to leave. We can decimate the PKK enough so they’ll be ineffectual for a generation.”

“And we look like butchers.”

“I don’t care what others may call me as long as I don’t have to worry about my innocent sons or daughters being killed in a damned playground by an aircraft downed by the PKK,” Defense Minister Cizak said bitterly. “It is time to act.”

“It is not just the PKK we need to address, sir, but the security situation with the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline,” military chief of staff Guzlev added. “The Iraqi peshmerga are still not trained or equipped well enough to protect the pipeline on their side of the border. We invested billions of lira on that pipeline, and the Iraqis still can’t adequately protect their portion, and won’t allow any outside forces except the Americans to assist. We can earn three times the amount we receive in flowage fees if we can convince the oil producers in northern Iraq—including our own companies—to increase production, but they won’t do it because the pipeline is too vulnerable to attack.”

President Hirsiz stabbed out his cigarette in the ornate ashtray on his desk, then returned to his seat. He was quiet for a few long moments, lost in thought. It was rare that the national security staff was so divided, especially when it came to the PKK and their brutal insurgent attacks. The unexpected appearance of Besir Ozek in his office just hours after surviving the crash should have united their determination to stamp out the PKK once and for all.

But the national security staff—and he himself, Hirsiz had to admit—were conflicted and divided, with the civilian military leadership desiring a peaceful, diplomatic solution as opposed to a call for direct action by the uniformed commanders. Opposing the Americans and world public opinion with a divided council was not a smart move.

Kurzat Hirsiz got to his feet again and stood straight, almost at attention. “General Ozek, thank you for coming here and addressing me and the national security staff,” he said formally. “We will discuss these options very carefully.”

“Sir…” Ozek lurched forward from shock, forgetting his injuries and wincing in pain as he struggled for balance. “Sir, respectfully, you must act swiftly and decisively. The PKK—no, the world—must know that this government takes these attacks seriously. Every moment we delay only shows that we are not committed to our internal security.”

“I agree, General,” Hirsiz said, “but we must act deliberately and carefully, and in close consultation with our international allies. I will instruct General Sahin to put together a plan for the Special Teams to hunt down and capture or kill the PKK operatives who might have planned and led this attack, and to aggressively investigate the possibility of spies in the Jandarma.

“I will further instruct Foreign Minister Hamarat to consult with his American, NATO, and European counterparts and inform them of this council’s outrage at this attack and a demand for cooperation and assistance in tracking down the perpetrators.” He inwardly winced at General Ozek’s incredulous expression, which only served to accentuate his weak, shaky stance. “We will act, General,” Hirsiz quickly added, “but we will do it wisely and as a member of the world community. This will further isolate and marginalize the PKK. If we act rashly, we will be seen as no better than the terrorists.”

“The…world…community?” Ozek murmured bitterly.

“What did you say, General?” Hirsiz snapped. “Do you have something you would like to tell me?”

The wounded Jandarma officer briefly yet openly scowled at the president of the Republic of Turkey, but quickly straightened himself as best he could, assumed a stern but neutral expression, and said, “No, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed, General, with the national security council’s and the Turkish people’s sincere thanks and relief that you are alive following this treacherous and dastardly attack,” Hirsiz said, his acidic tone definitely not matching his words.

“Permission to accompany the general to transient quarters, sir,” armed-forces chief of staff Guzlev said.

Hirsiz looked at his military chief of staff questioningly, finding no answers. He glanced at Ozek, inwardly wincing again at his horrific wounds but finding himself wondering when the best time would be to dismiss the wild raging bull before him. The sooner the better, but not before he had taken every propaganda advantage of his incredible survival.

“We shall reconvene the national security staff in twenty minutes in the Council of Ministers’ conference center to map out a response, General Guzlev,” the president said warily. “Please be back by then. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” Guzlev said. He and Ozek stood at attention momentarily, then headed for the door, with Guzlev carefully holding Ozek’s less-wounded arm for support.

“What in the world possessed Ozek to come all the way to Ankara after barely surviving a plane crash?” Foreign Minister Hamarat asked incredulously. “My God, the pain must be excruiating! I was once in a minor fender bender and I hurt for weeks afterward! That man was pulled from the burning wreckage of a downed aircraft just a few hours ago!”

“He’s angry and he’s out for blood, Mustafa,” Prime Minister Akas said. She stepped over to Hirsiz, who still appeared to be standing at attention as if placed in a brace by Ozek. “Don’t pay attention to Guzlev and Ozek,” she added in a whisper. “They’re out for blood. We’ve spoken about an invasion many times before and dismissed it every time.”

“Maybe this is the right time, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz whispered back. “Guzlev, Cizek, Ozek, and even Sahin are for it.”

“You’re not seriously considering it, are you, Mr. President?” Akas whispered back with an incredulous hiss. “The United States would never agree. We’d be pariahs in the world’s eyes…”

“I’m beginning to not care what the world thinks of us, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “How many more funerals do we have to attend before the world lets us do something about the rebel Kurds out there?”

“Nahla Tower, Scion One-Seven, nine miles out, requesting visual approach to runway two-niner.”

“Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are number one, cleared to land,” the supervising Iraqi army controller responded in very good but heavily accented English. “Recommend Nahla enhanced arrival procedure three, the base is at Force Protection Condition Bravo, cleared for enhanced arrival procedure three, acknowledge.”

“Negative, Nahla, Scion One-Seven wants clearance for the visual to two-niner.”

The supervisor was unaccustomed to anyone not following his instructions to the letter, and he stabbed at his mike button and shot back: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, a visual approach is not authorized in FPCON Bravo conditions.” FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called “Threat Condition” or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that actionable intelligence had been received that an attack was possible. “You will execute procedure three. Do you understand? Acknowledge.”

A phone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked it up. A moment later he handed the receiver to the supervisor: “Sir? The deputy base commander for you.”

The supervisor, further annoyed by being interrupted while he was working an inbound flight, snatched the receiver away from his deputy. “Captain Saad. I’ve got an arriving flight, sir, can I call you back?”

“Captain, let that inbound flight do the visual pattern,” he heard the familiar voice of the American colonel say. The deputy base commander was obviously listening in on the tower frequency awaiting this flight. “It’s his funeral.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Why an American special mission aircraft would risk getting shot at by not performing the high-performance arrival procedure was unclear, but orders were orders. He gave his deputy the receiver, sighed, and touched the mike button again: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are cleared for the visual approach and overhead pattern to runway two-niner, winds two-seven zero at twenty-five knots gusting to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, cleared to land.”

“Scion One-Seven, cleared for the visual and overhead to two-niner, cleared to land.”

The supervisor picked up the crash phone: “Station One, this is the tower,” he said in Arabic. “I have a flight on final approach to land, and I’ve cleared him for a visual approach and pattern.”

“Say again?” the dispatcher at the airport fire station queried. “But we’re at FPCON Bravo.”

“The American colonel’s orders. I wanted to put you guys on notice.”

“Thanks for the call. The captain will probably move us out to our ‘hot spots’ on taxiway Delta.”

“You’re cleared to preposition on Delta.” The supervisor hung up the phone. He then made a similar call to base security and to the hospital. If there was going to be an attack—and this was the perfect opportunity for one—the more alerts he could issue, the better.

Through his binoculars, the tower supervisor searched for the aircraft. He could see it on his tower radar display, but not yet visually. It was about six miles out, coming straight in but offset to the west, appearing to line up for the downwind leg for Runway 29—and he was ridiculously slow, as if configured for landing while still several minutes from touchdown. Did this guy have some sort of death wish? He relayed the aircraft position to security and crash responders so they could move to a better position…

…or get out of the way of the wreckage, in case the worst happened.

Finally, at three miles he saw it—or rather, saw part of it. It had a broad, bulbous fuselage, but he could not make out the wings or tail. It had no visible passenger windows and a weird paint color—sort of a medium bluish gray, but the shading seemed to change depending on background clouds and lighting levels. It was unusually hard to maintain a visual on it.

He checked the BRITE tower radar display, a repeater of Mosul Approach Control’s local radar, and sure enough the plane was flying only ninety-eight knots—about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! Not only was the pilot making himself an easy target for snipers, but he was going to stall the plane and crash. In these winds, a sudden errant gust could flip that guy upside down fast.

“Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, are you experiencing difficulty?”

“Tower, One-Seven, negative,” the pilot replied.

“Copy. You are cleared to land. We are in FPCON Bravo. Acknowledge.”

“Scion One-Seven copies FPCON Bravo and cleared to land.”

Stupid, just plain stupid. The supervisor watched in amazement as the strange plane executed a standard left downwind pattern on the west side of the runway. It resembled an American stealth bomber, except its engines were atop the rear fuselage and it appeared much larger. He expected to see RPG or Stinger missiles flying through the sky any second. The aircraft rocked a few times in the gusty winds, but mostly maintained a very stable flight path despite its unbelievably slow flight speed—it was like watching a tiny Cessna in the pattern instead of a two-hundred-thousand-pound airplane.

Somehow, the plane managed to make it all the way around the rectangular traffic pattern without falling or being shot from the sky. The tower supervisor could not see any wing flaps deployed. It maintained that ridiculously slow airspeed all the way around the pattern until short final, when it slowed to precisely ninety knots, then dropped as lightly as a feather on the numbers. It easily turned off at the first taxiway; he had never seen a fixed-wing plane land in such a short distance.

“Tower, Scion One-Seven is clear of the active,” the pilot reported.

The supervisor had to shake himself from his shock. “Roger, One-Seven, stay on this frequency, report security vehicles in sight straight ahead, they will lead you to parking. Use caution for fire trucks and security vehicles on the taxiways. Welcome to Nahla.”

“Roger, Tower, One-Seven has the security vehicles in sight,” the pilot responded. Several armed Humvees with gunners in turrets manning .50 caliber machine guns or forty-millimeter rapid-fire grenade launchers had surrounded the aircraft, and a blue Suburban with flashing blue lights and a large yellow “Follow Me” sign pulled out ahead. “Have a nice day.”

The convoy escorted the plane to a large aircraft shelter north of the control tower. The Humvees deployed around the shelter as the Suburban pulled inside, and an aircraft marshaler brought the plane to a stop. A set of air stairs was towed out to the plane, but before it was put into position a hatch opened under the cockpit behind the nose gear, and personnel began climbing down a ladder.

At the same time, several men exited the Humvee and stood at the plane’s left wingtip, one of them visibly upset. “Man, they weren’t kidding—it’s hot out here!” Jon Masters exclaimed. He looked around at the aircraft shelter. “Hey, this hangar has air conditioning—let’s crank it up!”

“Let’s check in with the base commander first, Jon,” the second man out, Patrick McLanahan, suggested. He nodded to the Humvee below them. “I think that’s Colonel Jaffar and our contact right there.”

“Jaffar looks pissed. What did we do now?”

“Let’s go find out,” Patrick said. He stepped over to the Iraqi colonel, bowed slightly, and extended a hand. “Colonel Jaffar? I’m Patrick McLanahan.”

Jaffar was just a bit taller than Patrick, but he raised his chin, puffed out his chest, and flexed himself on his toes to make himself look taller and more important. When he was satisfied the newcomers took notice, he slowly raised his right hand to his right eyebrow in a salute. “General McLanahan. Welcome to Nahla Air Base,” he said in very good but heavily accented English. Patrick returned the salute, then reextended his hand. Jaffar slowly took it, smiled faintly, then tried to crush Patrick’s hand in his. When he realized it wouldn’t work, the smile disappeared.

“Colonel, may I present Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters. Dr. Masters, Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, Iraqi Air Forces, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla.” Jaffar nodded but did not shake hands with Jon. Patrick gave a slight exasperated shake of his head, then read the name tag of the young man standing beside and behind Jaffar. “Mr Thompson? I’m Patrick—”

“General Patrick McLanahan. I know who you are, sir—we all know who you are.” The tall, impossibly young-looking officer behind Jaffar stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear. “Nice to meet you, sir. Kris Thompson, president of Thompson International, security consultants.” He shook Patrick’s hand with both of his, pumping it excitedly and shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it…General Patrick McLanahan. I’m actually shaking hands with the Patrick McLanahan.”

“Thanks, Kris. This is Dr. Jon Masters. He’s—”

“Hiya, Doc,” Thompson said, not taking his eyes off or releasing the hand of Patrick McLanahan. “Welcome, sir. It’s a real honor and privilege to meet you and welcome you to Iraq. I will—”

“You will please stop your chattering, Thompson, and let us get to business,” Jaffar said impatiently. “Your reputation assuredly precedes you, General, but I must remind you that you are a civilian contractor and bound to obey my rules and regulations and those of the Republic of Iraq. I have been asked by your government to extend you all possible courtesies and assistance, and as a fellow officer, I am honor-bound to do so, but you must understand that Iraqi law—which is to say, in this place, my law—must be followed at all times. Is that clear, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel, it’s clear,” Patrick said.

“Then why did you disobey my regulations concerning arrivals and approaches to Nahla?”

“We thought it was necessary to assess the threat condition ourselves, Colonel,” Patrick replied. “Doing a max-performance arrival wouldn’t have told us anything. We decided to assume the risk and do a visual approach and pattern.”

“My staff and I assess the threat condition on this base every hour of every day, General,” Jaffar said angrily. “I issue orders that govern all personnel and operations at this base to ensure the safety and security of everyone. They are not to be disregarded for any reason. You cannot assume the risk at any time for any reason, sir: the responsibility is mine, at all times, and that is inviolate. Disregard my law again, and you shall be asked to perform your tasks at another base. Is that clear, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel, it’s clear.”

“Very well.” Jaffar put his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest again. “I think you are very fortunate you were not hit by enemy fire. My security forces and I swept the entire area in a ten kilometer radius outside the base for threats. I assure you, you were in little danger. But that does not mean you can—”

“Excuse me, but we did come under fire, Colonel,” Jon Masters cut in.

Jaffar’s eyes blazed at the interruption, then his mouth opened and closed in confusion, then turned rigid in indignation. “What did you say, young man?” he growled.

“We were hit by ground fire a total of one hundred and seventy-nine times while within ten miles of the base, Colonel,” Jon said. “And forty-one of the shots came from inside the base.”

“That is impossible! That is preposterous! How could you know this?”

“That’s our job here, Colonel: assess the threat condition at this and other allied air bases in northern Iraq,” Patrick said. “Our aircraft is instrumented and allows us to detect, track, identify, and pinpoint the origin of attacks. We can locate, identify, and track weapon fire down to nine-millimeter caliber.” He held out his hand, and Jon put a folder in it. “Here’s a map of the origin of all the shots we detected. As you can see, Colonel, one of the heaviest volleys of gunfire—a six-round burst of 12.7-millimeter cannon fire—came from this base. From the security-forces training range, to be exact.” He took a step toward Jaffar, his blue eyes boring into the Iraqi’s. “Tell me, Colonel: Who’s out on that range right now? What caliber of antiaircraft weapons do you have here at Nahla?” Jaffar’s mouth bobbled again in confusion. “Whoever did this, I expect them to be placed under arrest and charged with deliberately firing upon allied aircraft.”

“I…I will look into it…personally, sir,” Jaffar said, sweat popping out on his forehead. He made a slight bow, backing away. “I will look into this immediately, sir.” He almost ran headlong into Thompson in his haste to get away.

“What a butthead,” Jon said. “I hope we don’t have to put up with his shit every day out here.”

“He’s actually one of the more competent commanders in northern Iraq, Doc,” Thompson said. “He expects a lot of ass kissing and genuflecting. But he’s not the one that gets things done—he just cracks heads whenever one of his underlings doesn’t do the job. So, is that true about you detecting and tracking attacks against your aircraft?”

“Absolutely,” Jon replied. “And we can do a lot more, too.”

“We’ll give you details once we get your security clearance, Kris,” Patrick said. “It’ll water your eyes, believe me.”

“Cool,” Thompson said. “The colonel may act like a preening peacock, but when he finds the jokers who shot at you, he’ll bring the hammer down on them for sure.”

“Unfortunately it wasn’t just some bozos out on the range—we detected several other locations both inside the base and just outside the perimeter,” Jon said. “The colonel may be the best around, but it’s not good enough. He’s got sappers inside the wire.”

“As I texted you when you told me you were coming, sir,” Thompson said, “I believe the FPCON here should be Delta—active and ongoing terrorist contact. It makes Jaffar look bad to Baghdad to be any higher than Bravo. But my guys and the Army security forces are behaving as if it’s Delta. So if you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll show you to your quarters and offices and show you around the base a bit.”

“If you don’t mind, Kris, we’d like to get our area of responsibility set up and our first series of flights scheduled,” Patrick said. “I’d like to fly the first mission tonight. The support staff will get our quarters set up.”

“Tonight? But you just got here, sir. You must be beat.”

“One hundred and seventy hits on our plane with one-fourth of them from inside this base—we need to get busy,” Patrick said.

“Then we need to go to operations and see Colonel Jack Wilhelm,” Thompson said. “Officially he’s the second in command under Jaffar, but everyone knows who’s really in charge, and it’s him. He’s usually in the Triple-C—Command and Control Center.”

They all piled into another up-armored white Suburban, with Thompson driving. “Nahla, which means ‘bumblebee’ in Arabic, used to be a U.S. Air Force supply base,” he said as he drove down the flight line. They saw rows and rows of cargo planes of every size, from C-5 Galaxys down to bizjets. “In Saddam’s time it was set up to quell the ethnic Kurdish population, and it became one of the biggest Iraqi military bases in the country. They say this was the base where the chemical weapons that Saddam used on the Kurds were stored, and so this is a major target for Kurdish insurgents that we deal with from time to time, along with AQI—al-Qaeda in Iraq—Shiite insurgents, and foreign jihadists.

“Early this year Nahla was formally transferred from U.S. control to the Iraqi military. The Iraqis still don’t have much of an air force, however, so they designated it an ‘allied’ air base. The United States, NATO, and the United Nations lease facilities and ramp space from the Iraqis.”

“We build it and then get charged to use it,” Jon commented. “Swell.”

“If we didn’t pay to use it, we’d still be considered an ‘occupying force’ in Iraq,” Thompson explained. “It’s the politics of withdrawal from Iraq.

“The main fighting unit here at Nahla is Second Brigade, nicknamed ‘Warhammer,’” Thompson went on. “Second Brigade is a Stryker Combat Brigade Team, part of I Corps, Second Division, out of Fort Lewis, Washington. They’re one of the last units to do a fifteen-month rotation—all of the other units do twelve months. They support the Iraqi army with reconnaissance, intelligence, and training. They’re scheduled to rotate out within three months when the Iraqis will take full control of security in northern Iraq.”

“Do we really have half of all American transports somewhere in the Middle East, Kris?” Patrick asked.

“I’d say easily half of the Air Force’s transports are either on the ground in the theater or flying in or out of it, and the real number is probably closer to three-quarters,” Thompson said. “And that doesn’t include the civil reserve charters and contractors.”

“But it’ll still take a year to draw down our forces?” Jon asked. “That doesn’t seem right. It didn’t take that long to get our stuff out of Iraq after the first Gulf War, did it?”

“Different plan, Doc,” Thompson said. “The plan is to take everything out of Iraq except for the stuff at the two air bases and the embassy complex in Baghdad. After the first Gulf War, we left a lot of stuff in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Qatar, and the United Arab Emirates, and we had security locked up tight so we could roll with ease. It took over a year to get all our stuff out of Saudi when the U.S. was asked to leave there, and we just drove it up the highway to Kuwait. Here, we’re shipping all our stuff either home or to new bare bases in Romania, Poland, the Czech Republic, and Djibouti.”

“Still, it can’t take that long to get out, can it?”

“We’ve been at it nonstop day and night for almost a year, and another year is being really optimistic,” Thompson admitted. “It depends mostly on the security situation. The coup in Iran shut down the Persian Gulf completely for a year, and the few rail lines and highways in and out of the country weren’t secure, so we had to wait for more favorable conditions. Stuff urgently needed elsewhere could be flown out, but taking up an entire C-5 Galaxy or C-17 Globemaster just to fly one or two M1A2 battle tanks out didn’t make sense. And we’re not about to leave over two thousand armored vehicles behind.” He looked at Patrick. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, sir? Improve the security situation?”

“We’ll give it a shot,” Patrick said. “Obviously the Iraqis can’t get a handle on the security situation, and it wouldn’t be politically correct for American troops—who aren’t wanted in the country anyway—to be providing security, so they offer contracts to private companies to do the work.”

“Well, you’re certainly not alone, sir,” Thompson said. “Contractors do just about everything out here these days. We still have a Marine air unit here at Nahla who fly in support of Iraqi missions, and every now and then a Special Forces unit or SEAL team will buzz in and out, but otherwise the troops here don’t do much of anything except pack up the gear and wait for their ride home. Most training and security, intelligence, food service, transportation, communications, construction, demolition, recreation—all run by us contractors.”

“After the American holocaust, it was easier and faster to hire and retrain veterans than train new recruits,” Patrick said. “If you want to do more with less, you have to outsource the support functions and let the active duty soldiers do the specialized missions.”

“I hadn’t heard of Scion Aviation until the Army announced you were coming here,” Thompson remarked. “Where are you guys based out of?”

“Las Vegas,” Patrick replied. “It’s basically a bunch of investors who acquired a few high-tech but surplus aircraft from various companies and offered their services to the Pentagon. I was offered a job after I retired.”

“Sounds like the same deal with my company,” Kris said. “We’re a bunch of former and retired military physical, communications, and data security technicians and engineers. We still wanted to serve after getting out, so we formed the company.”

“Like it so far?”

“Frankly, I started the business because I thought the money would be good—all those stories of companies like Blackwater Worldwide getting these fat contracts were really attractive,” Kris admitted. “But it’s a business. The contracts may look juicy, but we spend the money getting the best personnel and equipment we can find and offering an effective solution for the lowest price. I can tell you that I haven’t seen a penny out of the business except what it costs me to survive. If there’s a profit, it goes right back into the business, which allows us to do more services, or do a service for a lower cost.”

“Just the opposite of the military,” Jon Masters said. “The military spends every penny of its budget so the budget doesn’t get cut the following year. Private companies save or invest every penny.”

“So you don’t have any trouble with these other companies, do you?” Patrick asked.

“I see some of these snake-eating ex–Special Forces guys wandering around the base,” Thompson said, “and they’re all decked out in top-of-the-line outdoor clothing, brand-new weapons, the latest gear, and tattoos up the wazoo. A lot of those guys just want to look cool, so they spend a lot of their own money on the latest and greatest. My company is mostly made up of computer geeks, ex–law enforcement officers, private investigators, and security guards. They pretty much ignore us. We get into scrapes every now and then when my guys deny them access, but we get it straightened out eventually.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good way to go to war, Kris.”

Thompson chuckled. “Hopefully, it’s not war,” he said. “War should be left to the professionals. I’d be just as happy supporting the professionals.”

The base was immense and very much resembled a small Army post back in the United States. “This place doesn’t look half bad,” Jon Masters commented. “I used to be sorry for you guys being sent all the way out here, but I’ve seen worse Army posts back in the States.”

“We never had a regular Burger King or McDonald’s, like some of the superbases,” Thompson said, “and if we did, the Iraqis probably would’ve shut it down anyway after they took over. Most of the troops here are still sleeping in CHUs because we never got around to building regular housing units. Of course there are no families here, so it’ll never compare to any regular overseas base like Germany or England. But the weather is a bit nicer and the locals are less hostile…at least a little less.”

“CHUs?”

“Containerized Housing Units. They’re a little bit bigger than a commercial truck trailer. We can stack them if we need the room, but as the Army draws down we have more room, so they’re all on ground level now. That’s where we’ll bunk your guys. They’re nicer than they sound, believe me—linoleum floors, fully insulated, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, flat-screen TVs. Two CHUs share a ‘wet CHU’—the latrine. Much nicer than latrine tents.”

A few minutes later they came to a twelve-foot-tall fence composed of concrete Jersey walls and reinforced corrugated metal sheeting topped by coils of razor wire. A few feet behind this wall was another twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, with heavily armed civilian K-9 security officers roving between the fences. Behind the chain-link fence was a fifty-foot clear area. It was all surrounding a plain boxy-looking three-story building with a sloped roof, several satellite dishes and antennae atop it, and absolutely no windows. There were thirty-foot-high security towers near the corners of the building. “Is this the headquarters building…or the prison?” Jon asked.

“Command and Control Center, or the Triple-C,” Thompson said. “Some call it Fobbitville—home of the ‘fobbits,’ the guys who never leave the FOB, or the Forward Operating Base—but we do fewer and fewer missions outside the wire these days so most of us could be considered fobbits. Right about in the geographic center of the base—the bad guys would need a pretty big mortar to reach it from outside the base, although they’ll get lucky and lob a homemade pickup-launched rocket in here every couple weeks or so.”

“Every couple weeks?”

“’Fraid so, Doc,” Thompson said. He then gave Jon a mischievous smile and added, “But that’s what you’re here to resolve…right?”

Security was tight entering the Triple-C, but it was still far less than what McLanahan and Masters had to put up with at Dreamland for so many years. There were no military security officers at all; it was all run by Thompson’s civilian contractors. They were a bit more respectful of Patrick after checking his identification—most of them were former or retired military; and three-star generals, even retired ones, earned their respect—but still seemed to perform brisk, sometimes rough pat-down searches with enthusiasm bordering on sadism. “Jeez, I think I need to use the bathroom to see if those guys pulled off any important parts,” Jon said as they passed through the last inspection station.

“Everyone gets the same treatment, which is why a lot of guys just end up bunking in here rather than going back to their CHUs,” Thompson said. “I think they laid it on a bit thicker because the boss was here. Sorry about that.” They emerged into a wide entry-way, and Thompson pointed to the hallway to the left. “The west hallway is the way to the various departments that make up the Triple-C—operations, air traffic control, communications, data, transportation, security, intelligence, interservice and foreign liaisons, and so forth. Upstairs above them are the commanders’ offices and briefing rooms. The east hallway is the DFAC, break rooms, and admin offices; above them are crash pads, bunk rooms, bathrooms, showers, et cetera. The north hallways have the computers, communications stuff, backup power generators, and physical plant. In the middle of it all is the command center itself, which we call the ‘Tank.’ Follow me.” Their IDs were checked and they were searched one more time at the entrance to the Tank—by an Army sergeant this time, their first encounter with a military security officer—and they were admitted inside.

The Tank actually resembled the Battle Management Center at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada. It was a large auditorium-like room with twelve large high-definition flat-panel screens surrounding an even larger screen in the back of the room, with a narrow stage for human briefers. On either side of the stage were rows of consoles for the various departments that fed data to the display screens and the commanders. Above them was an enclosed observation area for VIPs and specialists. In the middle of the room was a semicircular row of consoles for the department chiefs, and in the center of the semicircle were the seats and displays for the Iraqi brigade commander, which was empty, and his deputy, Colonel Jack Wilhelm.

Wilhelm was a large bearlike man resembling a much younger, dark-haired version of retired Army general Norman Schwarzkopf. He appeared to be chomping on a cigar, but it was actually the boom microphone from his headset set very close to his lips. Wilhelm was leaning forward on his console, snapping out orders and directions for what he wanted displayed on the screens.

Thompson maneuvered himself to get within Wilhelm’s field of vision, and when Wilhelm noticed the security contractor, he gave him a querying scowl and slid a headset ear cup away from his ear. “What?”

“The guys from Scion Aviation are here, Colonel,” Thompson said.

“Bunk ’em down in CHUville and tell them I’ll see them in the morning,” Wilhelm said, rolling his eyes and setting the earcup back in place.

“They want to start tonight, sir.”

Wilhelm moved the earcup again in exasperation. “What?”

“They want to start tonight, sir,” Thompson repeated.

“Start what?”

“Start doing surveillance. They say they’re ready to go right now and want to brief you on their proposed flight plan.”

“They do, do they?” Wilhelm spat. “Tell them we’re scheduled to brief at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning, Thompson. Bunk ’em down and—”

“If you have a few minutes to spare, Colonel,” Patrick said, stepping up beside Thompson, “we’d like to brief you now and get under way.”

Wilhelm turned in his seat and scowled at the newcomers and their interruption…and then blanched slightly when he recognized Patrick McLanahan. He got to his feet slowly, his eyes locked on Patrick’s as if sizing him up for a fight. He turned slightly to the technician seated beside him, but his eyes never left Patrick’s. “Get Weatherly in here,” he said, “and have him supervise the log air departures and take the scout patrol briefing. I’ll be back in a few.” He slipped the headset off, then extended his hand. “General McLanahan, Jack Wilhelm. Pleasure to meet you.”

Patrick shook his hand. “Same, Colonel.”

“I didn’t know you’d be on board that flight, General, or I never would have allowed a VFR pattern.”

“It was important we did it, Colonel—it told us a lot. Can we brief you and your staff on our first mission?”

“I assumed you’d want the rest of the afternoon and evening to rest up and get organized,” Wilhelm said. “I wanted to show you around the base, show you the Triple-C and the ops center here, meet the staff, get a good meal—”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that while we’re here, Colonel,” Patrick said, “but we ran into some hostile fire on the way in, and I think the sooner we get started, the better.”

“Hostile fire?” Wilhelm looked at Thompson. “What’s he talking about, Thompson? I wasn’t briefed.”

“We’re ready to brief you on it right now, Colonel,” Patrick said. “And then I’d like to plan an orientation and calibration flight for tonight to get started on finding the origins of that ground fire.”

“Excuse me, General,” Wilhelm said, “but your operations have to be carefully studied by the staff and then deconflicted with every department here in the Triple-C. That’s going to take a lot longer than a few hours.”

“We sent you our ops plan and a copy of the contract from the Air Force Civil Augmentation Agency a week ago, Colonel. Your staff should have had plenty of time to study it.”

“I’m confident they have, General, but my briefing with the staff is scheduled for oh-five-thirty hours tomorrow morning,” Wilhelm said. “You and I were supposed to meet at oh-seven-hundred to discuss it. I thought that was the plan.”

“It was the plan, Colonel, but now I’d like to launch our first mission tonight, before our other planes arrive.”

“Other planes? I thought we were just getting the one.”

“As soon as we took hostile fire coming in here, I requested and received authorization from my company to bring in a second operations aircraft with a few more specialized payloads and equipment,” Patrick said. “It’ll be another Loser-size aircraft—”

“‘Loser’?”

“Sorry. Nickname for our plane. I’ll need a hangar for it and bunks for twenty-five additional personnel. They’ll be here in about twenty hours. When it arrives I’ll need—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Wilhelm interrupted. “May I have a word with you?” He motioned to a front corner of the Tank, indicating Patrick should follow him; a young Air Force lieutenant wisely evacuated his nearby console when he saw the colonel’s warning glare as they approached.

Just as they reached the console so they could have their private chat, Patrick held up a finger, then reached up to touch a tiny button on an all but invisible earset in his left ear canal. Wilhelm’s eyes bugged in surprise. “Is that a wireless earpiece for a cell phone?” he asked.

Patrick nodded. “Are cell phones prohibited in here, Colonel? I can take it outside—”

“They’re…they’re supposed to be jammed so no one can receive or make calls on them—defense against remotely detonated IEDs. And the nearest cell tower is six miles away.”

“It’s a special unit—encrypted, secure, jam-resistant, pretty powerful for its size,” Patrick said. “We’ll look at upgrading your jammers, or replace them with directional finders that will pinpoint the location of both sides of a conversation.” Wilhelm blinked in confusion. “So it’s okay if I take this?” Wilhelm was too stunned to respond, so Patrick nodded in thanks and touched the “call” button. “Hi, Dave,” he said. “Yeah…yeah, have him make the call. You were right. Thanks.” He touched the earset again to terminate the call. “Sorry for the interruption, Colonel. Do you have a question for me?”

Wilhelm quickly cleared the confusion out of his head, then put his fists on his hips and leaned toward Patrick. “Yes, sir, I do: Who in hell do you think you are?” Wilhelm said in a low, muted, growling voice. He towered over McLanahan, jutting out his chin as if daring anyone to try to hit it and impaling him with a severe direct glare. “This is my command center. No one gives me orders in here, not even the hajji who supposedly commands this fucking base. And nothing comes within a hundred miles of here unless they get my approval and clearance first, even a retired three-star. Now that you’re here you can stay, but I guarantee the next sonofabitch who doesn’t get my permission to enter will get kicked off this base so fast and so hard he’ll be looking for his ass in the Persian Gulf. Do you read me, General?”

“Yes, Colonel, I do,” Patrick said. He did not look away, and the two men locked eyes. “Are you finished, Colonel?”

“Don’t give me any attitude, McLanahan,” Wilhelm said. “I’ve read your contract, and I’ve dealt with thousands of you civilian augmentees or contractors or whatever the hell you call yourselves now. You may be high-tech, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re still just one of the cooks and bottle washers around here.

“With all due respect, General, this is a warning: while you’re in my sector, you report to me; you get out of line, you get hell from me; you violate my orders, and I will personally stuff your balls down your throat.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You have something you want to say to me now, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Patrick gave Wilhelm a smile that nearly sent the Army colonel into a flying rage, then went on: “You have a phone call from division headquarters waiting for you. I suggest you take it.” Wilhelm turned and saw the communications shift duty officer trotting toward him.

He looked at McLanahan’s smile, gave him a glare, then went over to the nearby console, put on a headset, and logged himself in. “Wilhelm. What?”

“Stand by for division, sir,” the communications technician said. Wilhelm looked at McLanahan in surprise. A moment later: “Jack? Connolly here.” Charles Connolly was the two-star Army general based at Fort Lewis, Washington, who commanded the division assigned to northern Iraq.

“Yes, sir?”

“Sorry, Jack, but I just heard about it myself a few minutes ago and thought I’d better call you myself,” Connolly said. “That contractor assigned to run aerial surveillance missions on the Iraq-Turkish border in your sector? There’s a VIP on board: Patrick McLanahan.”

“I’m speaking to him right now, sir,” Wilhelm said.

“He’s there already? Shit. Sorry about that, Jack, but that guy has a reputation for just showing up and doing whatever the hell he pleases.”

“That’s not going to happen around here, sir.”

“Listen, Jack, treat this guy with kid gloves until we figure out exactly what kind of horsepower he’s got behind him,” Connolly said. “He’s a civilian and a contractor, yes, but Corps tells me he works for some heavy hitters that could very quickly make some career-altering phone calls if you get my drift.”

“He just informed me that he’s bringing another plane out here. Twenty-five more personnel! I’m trying to draw down this base, sir, not pack more civvies in here.”

“Yeah, I was told that, too,” Connolly said, his morose tone making it obvious that he wasn’t in the loop any more than the regimental executive officer was. “Listen, Jack, if he seriously violates one of your directives, I’ll back you one hundred percent if you want him off your base and out of your hair. But he is Patrick fucking McLanahan, and he is a retired three-banger. Corps says give him enough rope and he’ll eventually hang himself—he’s done it before, which is why he’s not in uniform anymore.”

“I still don’t like it, sir.”

“Well, handle it any way you want, Jack,” the division commander said, “but my advice is: put up with the guy for now, be nice to him, and don’t piss him off. If you don’t, and it turns out the guy has major juice behind him, we’ll both be out on our ears.

“Just keep focused on the job, Jack,” Connolly went on. “Our job is to transition that theater from a military to a civilian peacekeeping operation. Contractors like McLanahan will be the ones hanging their asses on the line. Your job is to bring your troops home safely and honorably—and to make me look good in the process, of course.”

Judging by the tone of his voice, Wilhelm thought, he wasn’t totally joking. “Roger that, sir.”

“Anything else for me?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Very good. Press on. Division out.”

Wilhelm broke the connection, then looked at McLanahan talking on his cellular earset again. If he had the technology to defeat all of their cellular jammers—the ones set up to defeat remote-controlled Improvised Explosive Device detonators—he had to have some first-class engineers and money behind him.

On the console, Wilhelm spoke: “Duty Officer, get the operations staff together right now in the main briefing room to discuss the Scion surveillance plan.”

“Yes, sir.”

McLanahan ended his conversation when Wilhelm took off his headset and approached him. “How did you know I was going to get a call from division, McLanahan?”

“Lucky guess.”

Wilhelm scowled at that response. “Sure,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “Whatever. The staff will brief us right away. Follow me.” Wilhelm led Patrick and Jon out of the Tank and upstairs to the main briefing room, a glassed-in soundproof meeting room that overlooked the consoles and center computer screens in the Tank. One by one, staff officers filed in with briefing notes and thumb drives containing their PowerPoint presentations. They did not waste time greeting the two officers already in the room.

Wilhelm took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator in the corner, then sat down in a chair in front of the windows overlooking the Tank. “So, General, tell me about this Scion Aviation International outfit you work for,” he said as they waited for the others to arrive and get ready.

“Not much to tell,” Patrick said. He got a bottle of water for Jon and himself but did not sit down. “Formed a little over a year ago by—”

“About the same time you retired because of the bum ticker?” Wilhelm asked. Patrick did not respond. “How are you doing with that?”

“Fine.”

“There was some scuttlebutt about President Gardner wanting to prosecute you for some of the things that happened in Iran.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Right. You knew I was going to get a secure satellite call from my headquarters ten thousand miles away, but you don’t know if you’re the target of a White House and Justice Department investigation.” Patrick said nothing. “And you wouldn’t know anything about the rumors that you were involved in the death of Leonid Zevitin, that it wasn’t a skiing accident?”

“I’m not here to respond to crazy rumors.”

“Of course not,” Wilhelm said wryly. “So. The money must be pretty good to keep you in the game traveling all over the world with a friggin’ heart condition. Most guys would be sitting by the pool in Florida collecting their pension money and hitting on divorcées.”

“The heart is fine as long as I’m not traveling in space.”

“Right. So, how is the money in this business of yours? I understand the mercenary business is booming.” Wilhelm put on a feigned panicked expression as if he was afraid he had insulted the retired three-star general. “Oh my, I’m sorry, General. Do you prefer to call it ‘private military company’ or ‘security consultant’ or what?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want to call it, Colonel,” Patrick said. A few of the field-grade officers getting ready for their briefing glanced over at their boss—some with humor in their expressions, others with fear.

Wilhelm gave a slight smile, pleased that he’d gotten a rise out of his VIP visitor. “Or is it just another name for the ‘Night Stalkers’? That’s the name of the outfit you’re rumored to have been part of a few years back, right? I remember something about those Libyan raids, am I right? The first time you got tossed out of the Air Force?” Patrick didn’t respond, which elicited another smile from Wilhelm. “Well, I think ‘Scion’ sounds a lot better than ‘Night Stalkers’ myself. More like a real security consultant outfit rather than a goofy, kids’ TV cartoon superhero show.” No response. “So how is the money, General?”

“I believe you know exactly how much the contract is for, Colonel,” Patrick said. “It’s not classified.”

“Yeah, yeah”—Wilhelm mugged—“now I remember: one year, with an option for three more years, for a whopping ninety-four million dollars a year! I believe it’s the largest single contract in the theater unless your name is Kellogg, Brand and Root, Halliburton, or Blackwater. But what I meant was, General, what’s your slice? If I don’t get a star in the next couple years, I might pull the plug, and if the money’s right, maybe you can use a grunt like me in Scion Aviation International. How about it, General, sir?”

“I don’t know, Colonel,” Patrick said expressionlessly. “I mean, what is it you do around here other than act like a big fucking blow-hard?”

Wilhelm’s face turned into a mask of rage, and he shot to his feet, nearly popping the water bottle in his fist apart in anger. He stepped within inches of Patrick, face-to-face once again. When Patrick neither tried to push him nor backed away, Wilhelm’s expression changed from fury to a crocodile’s smile.

“Good one, General,” he said, nodding. He lowered his voice. “What I’ll be doing from here on out, General, is making sure you’re doing what you’re contracted to do—nothing more, nothing less. You slip up, just a red cunt hair’s worth, and I’ll see to it that your sweet rich-bitch contract is canceled. I have a feeling you won’t be around very long. And if you put any of my men in any danger, I’ll solve your little heart problem by ripping it out of your chest and stuffing it down your throat.” He half turned to the others in the room. “Is my damned briefing ready yet, Weatherly?”

“We’re ready, sir,” one of the officers responded immediately. Wilhelm gave Patrick another sneer, then stormed off to his seat in the front row. Several field and company-grade officers were lined up to one side, ready to speak. “Good afternoon, sirs. My name is Lieutenant-Colonel Mark Weatherly, and I’m the regimental executive officer. This briefing is classified Secret, NOFORN, sensitive sources and methods involved, and the room is secure. This briefing will cover the findings of the regimental staff’s study of the surveillance plan presented by Scion Aviation International for—”

“Yeah, yeah, Weatherly, we’re not getting any younger here,” Wilhelm interrupted. “The good general here doesn’t need the whole Air War College dog and pony routine. Let’s cut to the chase.”

“Yes, sir,” the operations officer said. He quickly called up the proper PowerPoint slide. “The finding, sir, is that we’re just not that familiar with the technology being employed by Scion to know how effective it’ll be.”

“They spelled it out clearly enough, didn’t they, Weatherly?”

“Yes, sir, but…frankly, sir, we don’t believe it,” Weatherly said, nervously glancing at McLanahan. “One aircraft to patrol over twelve thousand square miles of ground and over one hundred thousand cubic miles of airspace? It would take two Global Hawks to do it—and Global Hawks can’t scan the sky, at least not yet. And that’s at the widest-scale MTI surveillance mode. Scion is proposing to have half-meter image resolution available at all times over the entire patrol area…with one aircraft? It can’t be done.”

“General?” Wilhelm asked with a slight smirk on his face. “Care to respond?” Turning to his staff officers, he interrupted himself by saying, “Oh, sorry, ladies and gents, this is retired Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan, the veep of Scion Aviation. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” The dumbfounded expressions and dropping jaws of the others in the room showed that they certainly did. “He decided to surprise us with his august presence today. General, my operations staff. The floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Patrick said, getting to his feet and giving Wilhelm an exasperated look. “I look forward to working with you on this project, guys. I could explain the technology that Dr. Jonathan Masters here has developed to improve the resolution and range of ground and air target surveillance sensors, but I think it would be better to show you. Clear the airspace for us tonight and we’ll show you what we can do.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, General, because of an op we just found out about for tonight.” Wilhelm turned to a very young, very nervous-looking captain. “Cotter?”

The captain took a furtive step forward. “Captain Kelvin Cotter, sir, director of air traffic management. We just learned about a planned Iraqi operation that they requested backup for, sir. They’re going to a village north of Zahuk to do a raid on a suspected Kurdish bomb-making and underground smuggling operation—supposedly a pretty big tunnel complex connecting several villages and running under the border. They’ve requested persistent surveillance support: a dedicated Global Hawk, Reapers, Predators, Strykers, the works, plus Air Force, Marine, and Army close air and artillery support. The spectrum is saturated. We…excuse me, sir, but we just don’t know how your sensors will interact with everyone else.”

“Then pull all the other UAVs out and let us do all the support,” Jon Masters said.

“What?” Wilhelm thundered.

“I said, don’t waste all that gas and flying time on all those UAVs and let us do all the surveillance support,” Jon said. “We’ve got three times the image resolution of Global Hawk, five times the electro-optical sensor resolution, and we can give you better and faster aerial command and control for the ground support guys. We can do communications relay, act as a local area network router for a thousand terminals—”

“A thousand terminals?” someone exclaimed.

“At over three times the speed of Link sixteen—which isn’t that hard to beat anyway,” Jon said. “Listen, guys, I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been using last-generation stuff out here almost from day one. Block Ten Global Hawks? Some of you probably weren’t even in the military when they started using those dinosaurs! Predator? You’re still using low-light TV? Who uses LLTV anymore…Fred Flintstone?”

“How do you propose to tie in all those different aircraft into your communications network and the Tank…by tonight?” Wilhelm asked. “It takes days to link and verify an asset.”

“I said, Colonel, you’re using outdated technology—of course it takes that long for stuff made ten years ago or more,” Jon responded. “It’s all plug-and-play nowadays in the rest of civilized society. You just power up your planes, get ’em within range of our plane, turn on the equipment, and it’s done. We can do it on the ground, or if the planes aren’t colocated we can do it in-flight.”

“Sorry, kids, but I have to see that before I’ll believe it,” Wilhelm said. He turned to another officer. “Harrison? Know anything about what they’re talking about?”

An attractive red-haired woman stepped forward, dodging around Cotter in his hasty retreat. “Yes, Colonel, I’ve read about instant high-speed broadband networking for remotely piloted aircraft and their sensors, but I’ve never seen it done.” She looked over at Patrick, then quickly stepped off the dais and extended a hand. Patrick stood and allowed his hand to be pumped enthusiastically. “Margaret Harrison, sir, formerly Air Force Third Special Operations Squadron ops officer. I’m a contractor directing UAV operations here in Nahla. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, sir, a real pleasure. You are the reason I joined the Air Force, sir. You are a genuine—”

“Let the man go and let’s finish this damned briefing, Harrison,” Wilhelm interrupted. The woman’s smile disappeared, and she scooted back to her place on the dais. “General, I am not going to risk sacrificing the mission by using unknown and unproven technology.”

“Colonel—”

“General, my AOR is all of Dahuk province plus half of Ninawa and Irbil provinces,” Wilhelm argued. “I’m also tasked to support operations in all of northern Iraq. The Zahuk operation is just one of about eight offensives that I’ve got to keep track of weekly, plus another six minor operations and dozens of incidents that occur daily. You want to put the lives of a thousand Iraqi and American soldiers and dozens of aircraft and ground vehicles in jeopardy just to satisfy your rich contract, and I’m not going to allow that. Cotter, when’s the next open window?”

“The Zahuk raid’s air support window terminates in twelve hours, so three P.M. local time.”

“Then that’s when you can do your test, General,” Wilhelm said. “You can get a full night’s sleep. Harrison, what UAVs can you let the general play with?”

“The Zahuk operation is using our division’s dedicated Global Hawk and all but one of the regiment’s Reapers and Predators, sir, and they won’t be serviced and ready to fly for at least twelve hours after they land. I might be able to make a Global Hawk available from down south.”

“See to it. Cotter, reserve the airspace for however long they need for their setup.” Wilhelm turned to the security contractor. “Thompson, take the general and his party to support services and get them bedded down.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Wilhelm got to his feet and turned to McLanahan. “General, you can quiz the staff here on anything else you need. Put in your requests for aircraft service to the flight line guys ASAP. I’ll see you for chow tonight.” He started for the door.

“Sorry, Colonel, but I’m afraid we’ll be busy,” Patrick said. “But thanks for the invite.”

Wilhelm stopped and turned. “How very industrious you ‘consultants’ are, General,” he said flatly. “You will be missed, I’m sure.” Weatherly called the room to attention as Wilhelm strode out the door.

As if released from invisible chains, all of the staff members hurried over to Patrick to introduce or reintroduce themselves. “We can’t believe you’re here, of all godforsaken places, sir,” Weatherly said after shaking hands.

“We all assumed you’d died or had a stroke or something when you suddenly disappeared off Armstrong Space Station,” Cotter said. “Not me—I thought President Gardner secretly sent an FBI hit squad up on the Space Shuttle to off you,” Harrison said.

“Real nice, Mugs.”

“It’s Margaret, you dillweed,” Harrison snapped with a smile. To McLanahan again: “Is it true, sir—did you really disregard orders from the president of the United States to bomb that Russian base in Iran?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Patrick said.

“But you did capture that Russian base in Siberia after the American holocaust and use it to attack those Russian missile sites, right, sir?” Reese Flippin, an impossibly thin, impossibly young-looking private contractor with a heavy southern accent and protruding teeth asked. “And the Russians shot nuke missiles at that base, and you survived it? Hot damn…!” And as the others laughed, the accent completely disappeared, even the teeth seemed to recede to normal positions, and Flippin added, “I mean, outstanding, sir, quite outstanding.” The laughter grew even louder.

Patrick noticed a young woman in a desert gray flight suit and gray flying boots gathering up her laptop computer and notes, staying separate from the others but watching with amusement. She had short dark hair, dark magnetic brown eyes, and a mischievous dimple that appeared and disappeared. She looked somewhat familiar, as many Air Force officers and aviators did to Patrick. Wilhelm hadn’t introduced her. “I’m sorry,” he said, talking around the others crowded around him but suddenly not caring. “We haven’t met. I’m—”

“Everyone knows General Patrick McLanahan,” the woman said. Patrick noticed with surprise that she was a lieutenant colonel and wore command pilot’s wings, but there were no other patches or unit designations on her flight suit, just vacant squares of Velcro. She extended a hand. “Gia Cazzotto. And actually, we have met.”

“We have?” Jerk, he admonished himself, how could you forget her? “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“I was with the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron.”

“Oh,” was all Patrick could say. The One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron was the Nevada Air National Guard B-1B Lancer heavy bomber unit that Patrick had deactivated, then reconstituted as the First Air Battle Wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base in Nevada—and since Patrick didn’t remember her, and he had handpicked each and every member of the Air Battle Force, it was quickly obvious to him that she hadn’t made the cut. “Where did you go after…after…”

“After you closed down the guard unit? It’s okay to say it, sir,” Cazzotto said. “I actually did okay—maybe closing the unit was a blessing in disguise. I went back to school, got my master’s degree in engineering, then got a position at Plant Forty-two, flying the Vampires headed for Battle Mountain.”

“Well, thank you for that,” Patrick said. “We couldn’t have done it without you.” Air Force Plant 42 was one of several federally owned but contractor-occupied manufacturing facilities. Located in Palmdale, California, Plant 42 was famous for building aircraft such as Lockheed’s B-1 bomber, Northrop’s B-2 Spirit stealth bomber, Lockheed’s SR-71 Blackbird and F-117 Nighthawk stealth fighter, and the Space Shuttle.

After the manufacturing lines shut down, the plants often did modification work to existing airframes as well as research and design work on new projects. The Air Battle Force’s B-1 bomber, renamed the EB-1C “Vampire,” was one of the most complex redesign projects ever done at Plant 42, adding mission-adaptive technology, more powerful engines, laser radar, advanced computers and targeting systems, and the capability of employing a wide array of weapons, including air-launched antiballistic missile and antisatellite missiles. It eventually became a pilotless aircraft with even better performance.

“And you’re still flying B-1s, Colonel?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, sir,” Gia replied. “After the American holocaust, they brought a dozen Bones out of AMARC, and we refurbished them.” AMARC, or the Aircraft Maintenance and Regeneration Center—known to all as the “Boneyard”—was the vast complex at DavisMonthan Air Force Base near Tucson, Arizona, where thousands of aircraft were taken to be stored and cannibalized for spare parts. “They’re not quite Vampires, but they can do a lot of the stuff you guys did.”

“Are you flying out of Nahla, Colonel?” Patrick asked. “I didn’t know they had B-1s here.”

“Boxer is commander of the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron,” Kris Thompson explained. “They’re based in various places—Bahrain, United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Diego Garcia—and stand by for missions as coalition forces in theater need them. She’s here because of the Iraqi operation tonight—we’ll have her B-1s standing by just in case.”

Patrick nodded, then smiled. “‘Boxer’? Your call sign?”

“My great-grandfather came into the U.S. at Ellis Island,” Gia explained. “Cazzotto was not his real last name—it was Inturrigardia—what’s so hard about that?—but the immigration people couldn’t pronounce it. But they heard the other kids calling him cazzotto—which means ‘a hard punch’—and they gave him that name. We don’t know if he was getting beat up all the time or if he was the one doing the punching.”

“I’ve seen her on the punching bag at the gym; she deserves that call sign,” Kris said.

“I see,” Patrick said, smiling at Gia. She smiled back, their eyes locking…

…which gave the others around them an opening. “When can we see this plane of yours, sir?” Harrison asked.

“Can it really do everything you said…?”

“Are you taking over for all the military units in Iraq…?”

“All right, boys and girls, all right, we have work to do,” Kris Thompson interjected, holding up his hands to stop the fast-moving questions being fired at Patrick. “You’ll have time to pester the general later.” They all jostled to shake Patrick’s hand again, then gathered up their thumb drives and papers and exited the briefing room.

Gia was the last to depart. She shook Patrick’s hand, keeping it an extra moment in her own. “Very nice to meet you, sir,” she said.

“Same here, Colonel.”

“I prefer Gia.”

“Okay, Gia.” He was still clasping her hand when she said that, and he felt an instantaneous rush of warmth in it—or was his own hand suddenly sweating? “Not Boxer?”

“You don’t get to pick your own call signs, do you, sir?”

“Call me Patrick. And bomber guys didn’t have call signs when I was in.”

“I remember my old ops officer at the One-Eleventh had some choice names for you,” she said, and then smiled and headed off.

Kris Thompson was grinning at Patrick. “She’s cute, in a Murphy Brown kind of way, eh?”

“Yes. And wipe that grin off your face.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, sure.” He kept on grinning. “We don’t know that much about her. We hear her on the radios once in a while, so she still flies. She comes in to run missions occasionally, like tonight, and then she’s off again to another command center. She rarely stays for longer than a day.”

Patrick felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, then quickly shook the uncomfortable feeling aside. Where did that come from…? “The B-1s are great planes,” he said. “I hope they resurrect more of them from AMARC.”

“The grunts love the Bones. They can get to the fight as fast as a fighter; loiter for long periods of time like a Predator or Global Hawk, even without air refueling; they have improved sensors and optics and can pass a lot of data to us and other planes; and they have as much precision-guided payload as a flight of F/A-18s.” Thompson noted the quiet, slightly wistful expression on Patrick’s face and decided to change the subject. “You’re a real inspiration to those kids, General,” he said. “That’s the most excited I’ve ever seen them since I’ve been here.”

“Thanks. It’s infectious—I feel energized, too. And call me Patrick, okay?”

“Can’t guarantee I will all the time, Patrick, but I’ll try. And I’m Kris. Let’s get you settled.”

“Can’t. Jon and I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow afternoon’s test flight. The staff will set up quarters for us, but I’ll probably take naps in the plane.”

“Same here,” Jon added. “Certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

“We’ll have support services bring meals out to the plane, then.”

“Good. Kris, I’d like clearance to be in the Tank when the operation at Zahuk begins.”

“The colonel doesn’t usually allow off-duty personnel to be in the Tank during an operation, especially one this big,” Kris said, “but I’m sure he’ll let you listen in from up here.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure if I want to get any closer than that to Wilhelm anyway,” Jon said. “I thought for sure he was going to punch your lights out, Muck…twice.”

“But he didn’t, which means he does have some common sense,” Patrick said. “Maybe I can work with him. We’ll see.”