Rogue Forces

CHAPTER THREE

Thompson took Patrick and Jon back out to the hangar, where the crew chiefs and support crew were unloading bags and servicing the Loser. This gave Thompson a chance to look the plane over carefully. “This thing is beautiful,” he remarked. “Looks like a stealth bomber. I thought you were just going to do reconnaissance.”

“That’s what we were hired to do,” Patrick said.

“But this is a bomber?”

“Was a bomber.”

Thompson noticed technicians working under the aircraft’s belly and saw a large opening. “Is that a bomb bay? This thing still has a bomb bay?”

“That’s a module access hatch,” Jon Masters said. “We don’t drop anything from it—we load and unload modules through them.”

“The Loser had two bomb bays, similar to the B-2 stealth bomber except much bigger,” Patrick explained. “We combined the two bays into one big bay but retained both lower doors. We then split the bay into two decks. We’re able to move mission modules around and between decks and maneuver each module either up or down through the module hatches, all by remote control.”

“A flying-wing reconnaissance plane?”

“The flying-wing design works well as a long-range multimission plane,” Jon Masters said. “Airliners in the future will be flying wings.”

“Scion’s planes are designed to be multifunction platforms; we plug in different mission modules to perform different tasks,” Patrick said. “This plane can be a tanker, cargo plane, do electronic warfare, photoreconnaissance, communications relay, command-and-control—even several of these functions at the same time.

“Right now we’re configured for ground moving-target indication, ground target identification and tracking, air surveillance, datalink, and command-and-control,” Patrick went on. “But if we brought different modules, we can load them up and perform different missions. Tomorrow we’ll have the air surveillance emitters up top.”

He then stepped underneath the plane and showed Thompson a large opening in the belly. “Through here, we’ll suspend the ground target emitter module for ground target identification and tracking. All of the modules are ‘plug-and-play’ through the ship’s digital communications suite, which uploads the data via satellite to the end users. Other modules we’ve installed are for the very-wide-area networking, threat detection and response, and self-protection.”

“‘Threat response’? You mean, attack?”

“I can’t really get into that system because it’s not part of the contract and it’s still experimental,” Patrick said, “but we’d like to do a little more to the bad guys than just decoy or jam their weapons.”

Patrick took Kris up the ladder and into the Loser. The cockpit looked roomy and comfortable. The instrument panel was composed of five wide monitors with a few normal “steam” gauges tucked away almost out of sight. “Pretty nice flight deck.”

“Aircraft commander and mission commander up front as usual,” Patrick said. He put a hand on the side-facing seat behind the copilot’s seat. “We have a flight engineer here who monitors all of the ship’s systems and the mission modules.”

Kris motioned to a counter behind the boarding ladder. “You even have a galley in here!”

“Flushing head, too; that comes in handy on these long flights,” Jon said.

They ducked through a small hatch in the rear of the cockpit, walked down a short narrow passageway, and emerged into an area fairly stuffed with cargo containers of all sizes, leaving only narrow aisles to walk around. “I thought you contractors rode around in planes with bedrooms and gold-plated faucets,” Kris quipped.

“I’ve never even seen a gold faucet, let alone ride in a plane with them,” Patrick said. “No, every square foot and every pound has to count.” He pointed to a half cargo module, the thinnest of all the ones installed in the plane that Kris could see. “That’s our baggage and personal items container. Each of the twenty-five persons we brought on this flight was limited to twenty pounds of luggage, and that included their laptops. Needless to say we’ll be visiting your commissary a lot on this deployment.”

They had to maneuver around a large gray-colored torpedo-shaped object that took up a great deal of the middle of the plane. “This must be the antenna that’ll stick out the top, I presume?” Kris asked.

“That’s it,” Patrick said. “It’s a laser radar module. Range is classified, but we can see well into space and it’s powerful enough to even look underwater. The electronically scanned laser emitters ‘draw’ pictures of everything they see millions of times a second with resolution three times better than Global Hawk. There’s another one down below that’s set up to scan for ground targets.”

“Kind of looks like a missile,” Kris observed. “And that opening down below still looks to me like a bomb bay.” He looked at Patrick with a curious expression. “‘Threat response,’ eh? Maybe you’re not out of the strategic bomber business after all, General?”

“Our contract calls for observing and reporting. Like the colonel said: no more, no less.”

“Yeah, right, General—and when I open a potato chip bag, I can eat only one,” Kris quipped. He looked around. “I don’t see any passenger seats on this thing. Did you take them out already?”

“If you’re going to report us to the FAA for not having approved seats and seat belts for each occupant—yes, Kris, we already took them out,” Patrick said.

“Jeez, you’re really blowing the image of you aviation contractors all to hell, sir,” Kris said, shaking his head. “I always thought you guys lived large.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble. There are two extra seats in the cockpit and some engineer seats at some of the modules topside and belowdecks that we share depending on who needs some real rest, but everyone brings sleeping bags and foam mats and stretches out wherever. I prefer the luggage cargo container myself—quiet and very well padded.”

“I think our containerized quarters will seem luxurious compared to this, sir,” Kris said. “You don’t have any radar operators on board?”

“The only way we can fit all this stuff inside the plane is to leave the radar operators, weapons controllers, and battle staff officers on the ground and datalink the info to them,” Patrick said. “But that’s the easy part. We can tie into anyone’s network pretty quickly, and we can send the data to just about anyone in the world—from the White House all the way down to a commando in a spider hole—via a multitude of methods. I’ll show you tonight in the briefing room.”

With technicians swarming all around the plane like ants, Thompson soon felt he was in the way. “I’m headed back to the Tank, Patrick,” he said. “Holler if you need anything.”

He didn’t see Patrick again until nine P.M. that evening. Thompson found him and Jon Masters in the conference room overlooking the Tank sitting in front of two large wide-screen laptop computers. The screens were divided into many different windows, most dark but some displaying video images. He took a closer look and was surprised to see what appeared to be a video feed from an aerial platform. “Where’s that image coming from, sir?” he asked.

“That’s Kelly Two-Two, a Reaper on its way to Zahuk,” Patrick replied.

Thompson looked at the laptops and realized that they didn’t have any data connections attached—the only cords coming into them were from AC adapters. “How did you get the feed? You’re not hooked up to our data stream, are you?”

“We’ve got the Loser fired up and scanning for datalinks,” Jon said. “When it picks up a datalink, it splices itself into the feed.”

“Your ‘Wi-Fi hot spot’ thingy, right?”

“Exactly.”

“And you got a wireless connection into here?”

“Yep.”

“How? We prohibit wireless networking inside the Triple-C, and the Tank is supposed to be shielded.”

Jon looked over at Patrick, who nodded his permission to explain. “Turned one way and a shield can be used to block things,” Jon said. “Turn it the other way and a shield can be used to collect things.”

“Huh?”

“It’s complicated and not always reliable, but we can usually penetrate most metallic shields,” Jon said. “Sometimes we can even get the shielding to act as an antenna for us. Active electromagnetic shields are tougher to penetrate, but you rely on the metal walls of the Tank and reinforced concrete and physical distance to shield the Triple-C. All that works in our favor.”

“You’ll have to explain to my physical security guys how you did this.”

“Of course. We can help you fix it, too.”

“Hack into our system and then charge us to plug the leak, General?” Thompson asked, only partially sarcastically. “Hell of a way to make a living.”

“My son grows out of his shoes every six months, Kris,” Patrick said with a wink.

“I’ll submit it,” Thompson said. He didn’t feel comfortable knowing it was apparently so easy to tap into their datalinks. “Who else are you plugged into?”

Jon looked over at Patrick again, who nodded assent. “Just about the whole operation,” Jon said. “We’ve channelized the entire command VHF and UHF radio net and the intercom here in the Triple-C, locked into the wide-area network created by the Stryker Combat Team, and we’re receiving the IMs between the tactical, brigade, and theater controllers.”

“IMs?”

“Instant messages,” Patrick said. “The easiest way for controllers to pass information like target coordinates or imagery analysis to others who are on the same network but can’t exchange datalinks is by plain old instant messages.”

“Like my daughter texting messages to her friends on her computer or cell phone?”

“Exactly,” Patrick said. He expanded a window, and Thompson saw a stream of chat messages—combat controllers describing a target area, sending geographic coordinates, and even passing along jokes and commenting on a ball game. “Sometimes the simplest routines are the best.”

“Cool.” When the IM window was moved so Kris could see it, it uncovered another window underneath it, and he was surprised…to see himself looking over Patrick’s shoulder! “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You tapped into my video security system?”

“We weren’t trying to do that—it just happened,” Jon said, grinning. Thompson didn’t look amused. “No joke, Kris. Our system searches for all the remote networks to plug into, and it found this one as well. It’s just the video system, although we did happen across some other security-related networks and declined access.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d decline access on all of them, General,” Thompson said stonily. Patrick nodded to Jon, who entered some instructions. The video feed disappeared. “That was not wise, General. If there’s a security problem after this, I’ll have to look at you as a probable source of the breach.”

“Understood,” Patrick said. He turned to look at the security chief. “But there obviously is some sort of breach, because there is someone on Nahla Air Base shooting at friendly aircraft. Since we’ve been hired to enhance security around this whole sector, I can argue that I can legally access something like video feeds.”

Thompson peered concernedly at McLanahan, his mouth rigid. After a few rather chilly moments he said, “The colonel said you were the kind of guy who’d rather ask forgiveness than ask permission.”

“I get more done that way, Kris,” Patrick said matter-of-factly. But a moment later, he got to his feet and faced Thompson directly. “I apologize for that, Kris,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so flippant about security matters. It’s your job and your responsibility. I’ll notify you the next time we stray across something like that again, and I’ll get your permission before I access it.”

Thompson realized that if Patrick had hacked into the security system once, he could just as easily do it again, with or without his permission. “Thank you, sir, but frankly I don’t believe that.”

“I’m serious, Kris. You tell me to shut it down, and it’s done…period.”

What if he didn’t shut it down? Thompson asked himself. What recourse did he have against a private contractor? He vowed to research the answer to that question right away. “I’m not going to argue about it, sir,” Kris said. “But you are here to assist me in securing this sector, so you can tie back in if you think it’s essential to your job. Just tell me when you’re back in, why, and what you’ve found.”

“Done. Thank you.”

“What other security-related areas were you able to access?”

“Colonel Jaffar’s internal security network.”

A cold sweat popped out under Kris’s collar. “Internal security? He doesn’t have an internal security staff. You mean his personal bodyguards?”

“That may be what you think it is, Kris, but it looks to me like he’s got an entire shadow J-staff—operations, intelligence, logistics, personnel, training, and security,” Jon said. “They do everything in Arabic, and there’s no foreigners on it that we can see.”

“That means that he has his men in charge of the entire regiment’s departments and command structure,” Patrick summarized, “so he’s kept abreast of everything you do, plus he’s got an entire J-staff operating in the background, paralleling the regimental staff functions.” He turned to Kris and added, “So if, for example, something were to happen to the Triple-C…”

“He’d be able to take over right away and continue operations himself,” Kris said. “Pretty fucking scary.”

“It could be suspicious, or it could be smart on his part,” Jon said. “He could even argue that your Status of Forces agreement allows him to have his own separate command staff.”

“Besides,” Patrick added, “you guys are trying to wind down military operations in Iraq and turn it over to the locals; this could just help facilitate that. No reason to automatically think something nefarious is going on.”

“I’ve been in security long enough to know that if the ‘oh shit’ meter starts twitching, something bad is happening,” Kris said. “Can you plug back into Jaffar’s network and advise me if you see something unusual, sir?”

“I’m sure we can link it up again, Kris,” Patrick said. “We’ll let you know.”

“I feel bad about giving you the hairy eyeball about hacking our security systems and then asking you to spy for me, sir.”

“Not a problem. We’re going to be working together for a while, and I do tend to jump first and ask questions later.”

A few minutes later the mission briefing commenced. It was very much like the mission briefings Patrick had conducted in the Air Force: time hacks, overview, weather, current intelligence, status of all the units involved, and then briefings by each unit and department on what they were going to be doing. All of the participants sat at their stations and briefed one another over the intercom system, while putting PowerPoint or computerized slides up on the screens in the back of the Tank and on individual displays. Patrick saw Gia Cazzotto at one of the consoles farthest from the dais, taking notes and looking very serious.

“Here’s the rundown on the Iraqi army’s operation, sir,” the “Battle Major,” Kenneth Bruno, began. “The Iraqi Seventh Brigade is sending the entire Maqbara Company of heavy infantry, about three hundred shooters, along with Major Jaafar Othman himself in the headquarters element. Maqbara Company is probably Seventh Brigade’s only pure infantry unit—all the rest are focused on security, police, and civil affairs—so we know this is a big deal.

“The target, what we are calling Reconnaissance Objective Parrot, is a suspected hidden tunnel complex north of the small village of Zahuk. Contact time is oh-three-hundred hours local. Othman will deploy two platoons of Iraqi troops to establish security around the town east and west, while two platoons will drive in for the tunnel network from the south and sweep it clean.”

“What about the north, Bruno?” Wilhelm asked.

“I think they’re hoping they’ll escape to the north so the Turks will take care of them.”

“Are the Turks involved in this thing at all?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Anyone advise them that the IA is going to be operating close to the border?”

“That’s the Iraqis’ job, sir.”

“Not when we have guys in the field.”

“Sir, we’re prohibited from contacting the Turks about an Iraqi operation without permission from Baghdad,” Thompson said. “It’s considered a security breach.”

“We’ll see about that shit,” Wilhelm spat. “Comm, get division on the line—I want to talk with the general directly. Thompson, if you have any back-channel contacts in Turkey, call them and unofficially suggest that something might be going on at Zahuk tonight.”

“I’ll get on it, Colonel.”

“Make it happen,” Wilhelm snapped. “The Turks are bound to be jumpy as hell after what just happened to them. Okay, what about Warhammer?”

“Warhammer’s mission is to back up the Iraqi army,” Bruno went on. “In the air, Third Special Ops Squadron will launch two MQ-9 Reapers, each carrying an imaging infrared sensor ball, laser designator, two 160-gallon external fuel tanks, and six AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided missiles. On the ground, Warhammer will send Second Platoon, Bravo Company, to recon behind the Iraqis. They will be positioned south, east, and west of Maqbara Company and observe. The Strykers’ main task is to fill in the picture of the battle space and assist if necessary. Division is sending their Global Hawk to keep an eye on the entire battle space.”

“The operative word here is observe, kiddies,” Wilhelm cut in. “Weapons will be tight on this op, understand? If you come under fire, take cover, identify, report, and await orders. I don’t want to be accused of shooting friendlies, even if the IA gets turned around and takes a shot at us. Continue.”

“Back at Nahla, Warhammer has two Apache helicopters from Fourth Aviation Regiment armed and fueled and ready to fly, loaded with rockets and Hellfires,” Bruno said. “We also have the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron, one B-1B Lancer bomber in patrol orbit Foxtrot. Colonel Cazzotto is acting as air combat controller.”

“A real cluster fuck all right,” Wilhelm growled. “That’s all we need is for the Air Farce to scream in and start dropping JDAMs on the IAs—they’re liable to trample our Strykers as they turn tail and run.” Patrick looked for a reaction from Gia, but she kept her head down and continued to take notes. “Okay: security. What’s the FPCON on the base, Thompson?”

“Currently Bravo, Colonel,” Kris replied, a telephone to his ear, “but an hour before we open the gates and deploy, we automatically go to Delta.”

“Not good enough. Go to Delta right now.”

“Colonel Jaffar wants to be notified before any change in THREATCON level.”

Wilhelm glared over at Thompson’s station and his mouth tightened when he saw he was not there. He turned to his deputy. “Send Jaffar a message telling him that I’m recommending bumping up the THREATCON now,” he said, “then do it, Thompson. Don’t wait for his approval.” Weatherly got right to it. They saw Wilhelm look around the Tank. “Where the hell are you, Thompson?”

“Up in the observation deck making sure the general is situated.”

“Get your ass down here where you belong, put us at THREATCON Delta, then assign someone to babysit the contractors. I need you at your damned post.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“General, where is your plane and your guys?” Wilhelm asked, glaring up at the observation deck. “They better be put away.”

“The plane and all my technicians are in the hangar,” Patrick responded. He was happy to see Gia had looked up at him, too. “The plane is on external power and with full connectivity.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” Wilhelm shot back, glaring up at McLanahan. “I just want to make sure you and your stuff are not in my way when we break out.”

“We’re all in the hangar as requested, Colonel.”

“I don’t request anything around here, General: I order it, and it gets done,” Wilhelm said. “They stay put until oh-three-hundred unless I say otherwise.”

“Got it.”

“Intel. Who is the biggest worry out there—other than our hajji allies, Bexar?”

“The biggest threat in our sector continues to be the group that calls itself the Islamic State of Iraq, based in Mosul, led by Abu al-Abadi, a Jordanian,” the regiment’s privately contracted intelligence officer, Frank Bexar, responded. “The Iraqis think the tunnel network near Zahuk is his stronghold, which is why they are sending such a large force. However, we have no actionable intelligence ourselves that al-Abadi is there.”

“The hajjis must have some pretty solid intel, Bexar,” Wilhelm growled. “Why don’t you?”

“The Iraqis say he’s there and they want him, dead or alive, sir,” Bexar responded. “But Zahuk and the countryside are controlled by the Kurds, and al-Qaeda is strongest in the cities, like Mosul. It’s not credible to me that al-Abadi would be allowed to have a ‘stronghold’ in that area.”

“Well, apparently he does, Bexar,” Wilhelm snapped. “You need to firm up your contacts and interface with the hajjis so we’re not sucking hind tit all the time intelwise. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Bexar replied nervously. “The other biggest threat to coalition troops is the ongoing conflict between Turkey and Kurdish guerrillas operating in our AOR. They continue to cross the border to attack targets in Turkey then retreat back into Iraq. Although the Kurdish rebels are not a direct threat to us, Turkey’s occasional cross-border retaliatory attacks against PKK rebel hideouts in Iraq have sometimes put our forces in danger.

“The Turks have told us that they have approximately five thousand troops deployed along the Turkey-Iraq border adjacent to our AOR. This agrees with our own observations. The Jandarma has conducted a few retaliatory raids in the past eighteen hours, but nothing too massive—a few of their commando strike units slipping their leashes, out looking for vengeance. Their latest intel shows a rebel leader they call Baz, or the Hawk—an Iraqi Kurd, possibly a woman—engineering daring raids on Turkish military targets, possibly including the downing of that Turkish tanker in Diyarbakir.”

“A woman, huh? I knew the women around here were ugly, but tough, too?” Wilhelm remarked with a laugh. “Are we getting current info from the Turks about their troop movements and antiterrorist operations?”

“The Turkish defense and interior ministries are pretty good about giving us the straight dope on their activities,” Bexar said. “We’ve even linked up via telephone on some of their air raids to deconflict the airspace.”

“At least you got your shit together with the Turks, Bexar,” Wilhelm said. The intelligence contractor swallowed hard and wrapped up his briefing as fast as he could.

After the last briefer finished, Wilhelm stood up, pulled off his headset, and turned to face his battle staff. “Okay, kiddies, listen up,” he began brusquely. The staff members made shows of pulling off their headsets to listen. “This is the IA’s show, not ours, so I don’t want any heroics and I sure as shit don’t want any slipups. This is a big op for the Iraqis but a routine one for us, so do it nice and smooth and by the book. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths shut. Restrict voice reports for operations to urgent ones only. When I ask to see something you’d better have it up on my screen a nanosecond later or I’ll come by and feed you your breakfast through your nostrils. Stay on your toes and let’s give the IA a good show. Get to it.”

“A regular Omar Bradley,” Jon Masters quipped. “A real soldier’s soldier.”

“He’s very highly regarded at division and Corps and will probably be pinning a star on soon,” Patrick said. “He’s tough but it looks like he runs a tight ship and gets the job done.”

“I just hope he lets us do ours.”

“We’ll do it with him or despite him,” Patrick said. “Okay, Dr. Jonathan Colin Masters, build me a picture of this gaggle and knock my socks off.”

The young engineer raised his hands like a neurosurgeon examining a brain he was about to operate on, accepted an imaginary scalpel, then began typing on his computer’s keyboard. “Prepare to be amazed, my friend. Prepare to be amazed.”

“I was expecting Grand Central Station or Tora Bora, not a Hobbit house,” groused Army First Lieutenant Ted Oakland, leader of a platoon of four Stryker Infantry Combat Vehicles. He was studying the objective area about a mile ahead of him through his night thermal imaging system, which was a repeater of the gunner’s sights. The southern entrance to the so-called al-Qaeda tunnel stronghold was a tiny mud hut that the twenty-ton Stryker could plow through with ease. It didn’t quite jibe with the intel they had received from locals and their Iraqi counterparts, who variously described it as a “fortress” and “citidel.”

Oakland switched from the thermal image to an overhead shot provided by a battalion MQ-9 Reaper armed unmanned aerial vehicle flying eight thousand feet overhead. The image clearly showed the deployment of Iraqi troops around the hut. There was a cluster of huts in the area, along with outbuildings and small corrals for livestock. At least eight platoons of Iraqi regulars were slowly moving in on the area.

“Pretty quiet out there, sir,” the gunner remarked.

“For a major bad guy stronghold, I’d agree,” Oakland said. “But the way the Iraqis are clodhopping their way out there, it’s a wonder the whole province hasn’t run off.”

Actually, the presence of the Stryker reconnaissance platoon had probably alerted the bad guys even better than the Iraqis. The platoon consisted of four Stryker infantry carrier vehicles. The twenty-ton vehicles had eight wheels and a 350-horsepower turbo diesel engine. They were lightly armed with .50 caliber machine guns or forty-millimeter rapid-fire grenade launchers operated by remote control from inside the vehicles. Because they were designed for mobility and not hitting power, the Strykers were lightly armored and could barely withstand ordinary squad-level machine gun fire; however, these vehicles wore slat armor—cagelike tubes of steel around the outside meant to dissipate most of the explosive energy of a rocket-propelled grenade, which made them look top-heavy.

Despite their ungainly appearance and low-tech wheeled footprint, the Strykers brought a real twenty-first-century capability to a battlefield: networkability. The Strykers could set up a node of a wide-area wireless computer network for miles around, so everyone from an individual vehicle to the president of the United States could track their position and status, see everything the crew could see, and pass information on targets to everyone else on the net. They brought an unprecedented level of situational awareness to every mission.

Along with the commander, driver, and gunner, the Strykers carried six dismounts—a section leader or assistant leader, two security troops, and three reconnaissance infantrymen. Oakland had the dismounts out to check the area ahead on foot. While the security teams set up a perimeter around each vehicle and watched the area through night-vision goggles, the section leader and recon soldiers carefully walked ahead of their intended route of travel, checking for booby traps, hiding spots, or any signs of the enemy.

Although they were marching behind the Iraqis and weren’t expected to come into contact, Oakland kept the dismounts out there because the Iraqi soldiers often did things that made absolutely no sense. They would find “lost” Iraqi soldiers—men heading the wrong way, mostly away from the direction of the enemy—or soldiers taking a break, eating, praying, or relieving themselves far from their units. Oakland often surmised that his platoon’s main mission behind the main force was to keep the Iraqis headed in the right direction.

But tonight the Iraqis looked like they were pressing forward well. Oakland was sure this was because it was a relatively large-scale operation, because the Maqbara Company was leading the way, and because Major Othman was in the field instead of hiding under an abayah whenever an operation got under way.

“About fifteen mike to contact,” Oakland said into the secure platoon net. “Stay sharp.” Still no sign that they had been discovered. This, Oakland thought, will either go off relatively well—or they were blundering off into an ambush. The next few minutes would tell…

“I’m impressed, Jon, really impressed,” Patrick McLanahan said. “The gear is working as advertised.”

“You expected anything less?” Jon Masters retorted smugly. He shrugged, then added, “Actually, I’m surprised myself. Networking the regimental stuff was a bigger hurdle than networking our own sensors, and that went pretty smoothly.”

“That could be a bad thing: it shouldn’t be so easy to link the regiment’s network,” Patrick observed.

“Ours isn’t nearly as easy to hack as the regiment’s,” Jon said confidently. “It’ll take an army of Sandra Bullocks to crack our encryption.” He pointed to one blank window on his laptop monitor. “Division’s Global Hawk is the only player not hooked up yet.”

“I may have been responsible for that,” Patrick admitted. “I told Dave that we’d be ready to start surveillance tonight, and he probably passed that along to President Martindale, who probably passed it along to Corps headquarters. Division might have retasked the Global Hawk.”

“That’s not your fault—that’s Wilhelm’s,” Jon said. “If he let us fly, we’d be on it like stink on shit. Well, they have lots of eyes up there without it.”

Patrick nodded, but he still looked uneasy. “I’m concerned about the northern portion of those tunnels,” he said. “If any AQI escapes we should get an eye on them so we can steer the Turks over to nab them, or use a Reaper to pick ’em off.” He brought a window from Jon’s laptop over to his display, studied it for a moment, entered some commands into his keyboard, and spoke. “Miss Harrison?”

“Harrison. Who is this?”

“General McLanahan.”

He could see the unmanned aerial vehicle contractor look around herself in confusion. “Where are you, General?”

“Up in the observation deck.”

She looked up and saw him through the large slanted window-panes. “Oh, hello, sir. I didn’t know you were on this net.”

“Officially I’m not, but Kris said it was okay. I have a request.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You have Kelly Two-Two on station in the southern part of the op, and Kelly Two-Six ready to go as a backup. Could you move Two-Two up north to cover the northern tunnel entrance and move Two-Six to cover the south?”

“Why, sir?”

“The Global Hawk isn’t on station, so we don’t have any coverage in the north.”

“I’d have to fly the Reaper to within maximum missile range of the Turkish border, and that requires permission from Corps and probably from the State Department. We could download weapons from Two-Six and send it up.”

“This thing will most likely be over by then, Lieutenant.”

“True, sir.”

“If we can get some eyes up there, I’d feel a little more relieved,” Patrick said. “How about we send Two-Two right up to the distance limit until I coordinate with Corps?”

“I’ll have to deconflict Two-Six so it can launch,” Harrison said. “Stand by.” Patrick flipped over to the approach radar picture of Nahla Air Base and found it relatively free of traffic, undoubtedly because the airspace had been closed down as a result of the operation to the north. A moment later: “Airspace says we can launch when ready, sir. Let me get permission from the battle major.”

“It was my idea, Lieutenant, so I’d be happy to give him a call and explain what I had in mind.”

“You’re not supposed to be on this net, sir,” Harrison said, glancing up at Patrick and giggling. “Besides, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take credit for your idea.”

“I’ll take the blame if there’s any snafu, Lieutenant.”

“No problem, sir. Stand by.” She clicked off the connection, but Patrick was able to eavesdrop on her conversation with Major Bruno and the conversation between Bruno and Lieutenant Colonel Weatherly about the launch. They all agreed it was a good idea to move the Reaper as long as it didn’t violate any international agreements, and soon Kelly Two-Six was airborne and Two-Two was moving north to take up a patrol orbit near the Turkish border.

“Whoever’s idea it was to move the Reaper up north…hoo-ah,” Wilhelm said over the Tank network.

“Harrison’s idea, sir,” Weatherly said.

“I wasted a perfectly good ‘hoo-ah’ on a contractor?” Wilhelm said, feigning disgust at himself. “Oh, well, I know we gotta toss the mercs a bone every once in a while. Good heads-up, Harrison.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Is that his way of giving out praise?” Jon asked. “What a sweet guy.”

The picture of the operation looked considerably better once the Reaper had taken up a patrol orbit near the Turkish border, although it was still too far south to completely fill in the picture. “It was a good idea, sir,” Harrison said to Patrick, “but the ROE restrictions still can’t give us a look at where the tunnel supposedly exits. I’ll check on the Global Hawk.”

“We’d have that entire area covered seven ways to Sunday with the Loser,” Jon said. “Wait’ll these guys see us in action.”

“I really wish you’d change that name, Jon.”

“I will—but first I want to rub the Air Force’s face in it for a while,” Jon said happily. “I can’t wait.”

“There they go, sir,” the gunner aboard Lieutenant Oakland’s Stryker said, studying the image of the tunnel entrance through his imaging infrared sights. Several bright flashes of light erupted on the screen, and seconds later the sounds of the explosion rippled over them. “Looks like the lead platoons are on the move.”

Oakland checked his watch. “Right on time, too. I’m impressed. We’d be hard-pressed to get an op this size going dead on time.” He flipped a switch on his monitor, checking the areas around each of his Strykers deployed around the area, then keyed his mike. “Weapons tight and stay sharp, guys,” he radioed to his platoon. “The IA is on the move.” Each section leader clicked an affirmative in response.

When all of them had checked in, Oakland sent an instant message to the Tank in Nahla, reporting friendly force movement. He briefly switched over to Maqbara Company’s command radio network and was met with an insane and completely incomprehensible cacophony of excited, shouted Arabic. He quickly switched it off. “Good radio discipline, guys,” he said under his breath.

“They’re going in, sir,” the Stryker gunner said. He and Oakland watched as a squad of eight Iraqi soldiers approached the building. Two soldiers used grenade launchers to blow the door open, showering themselves with wood and stone fragments because they had moved in far too close.

“Oh, c’mon, guys, where’s your entry team?” Oakland said aloud. “You should know that the guys who blew the door aren’t going to be able to do a smooth entry. One squad blows the door while another squad who’s shielded from the light and concussion do the entry. My seven-year-old knows this.” But soon he could see a sergeant reorganizing his entry team and getting the breaching team out of the way, so after a brief stutter step the operation appeared to be progressing.

Back at the Tank, Patrick and Jon were watching the action via feeds from the Strykers and unmanned aircraft…except Patrick was not looking at the raid on the suspected tunnel entrance, but farther north along the Iraq-Turkey border. The view from the MQ-9 Reaper’s imaging infrared scanner showed rolling hills punctuated by tall rocky crags and deep forested valleys.

“Sorry, sir, but you’re not going to get too much contrast or detail at this looking angle,” Margaret Harrison, the regiment’s Reaper liaison officer, said to him over the intercom. “Reapers are meant to look down at a fairly steep angle, not across to the horizon.”

“Copy,” Patrick responded. “Just a few more seconds.” He touched another key on his keyboard and spoke: “Mr. Bexar?”

“Bexar here,” the privately contracted intelligence officer replied.

“This is McLanahan.”

“How are you, General? Are you authorized to be on the net now?”

“Mr. Thompson said it was okay. I have a question.”

“I don’t personally know your security clearance, General,” Bexar said. “I assume you have a ‘top secret’ or else you couldn’t have sat in on the briefing, but until I verify, I’ll have to refrain from answering any questions that might compromise operational security.”

“Understood. You briefed that the Turks have five thousand troops in the area immediately adjacent to the regiment’s area of responsibility?”

“Yes, sir. The equivalent of two mechanized infantry brigades, one each in Sirnak and Hakkari provinces, plus three Jandarma battalions.”

“That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“Considering recent events, I don’t think so,” Bexar said. “They’ve roughly tried to mirror American and Iraqi force levels over the past couple years. The Jandarma have maintained many more forces in southeast Turkey in the past depending on PKK activity levels. The problem is, we don’t always get regular updates on Jandarma unit movements.”

“Why is that?”

“The Turkish Ministry of the Interior is pretty tight-lipped—they’re not obligated by NATO treaty to share information like the Ministry of Defense is.”

“But the mechanized infantry movement in the area is a relatively new development?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. But my question is, Mr. Bexar: Where are they?”

“Where are who?”

“Where are all these Turkish forces? A mechanized infantry brigade is pretty hard to hide.”

“Well, I suppose…” The question had obviously taken the intelligence man by surprise. “They…could be anywhere, General. My guess is they’re in garrisons in the provincial capitals. As for the Jandarma, they can evade our surveillance easily in this terrain.”

“Kelly Two-Two has been looking at the frontier for the past few minutes and I haven’t seen any indications of any vehicles whatsoever,” Patrick said. “And according to my charts, Two-Two is looking right at the town of Uludere, correct?”

“Stand by.” A moment later, after checking the telemetry readouts from the Reaper’s imaging infrared sensor: “Yes, General, you’re right.”

“We’re looking at the town, but I don’t see any lights or even any evidence of life out there. Am I missing something?”

There was a slight pause; then: “General, why are you asking about Turkey? The Turks aren’t involved in this operation.”

Yeah, Patrick thought, why am I looking at Turkey? “Just curious, I guess,” he finally responded. “I’ll let you get back to work. Sorry for the—”

“Harrison, what is Two-Two looking at?” Wilhelm asked over the intercom. “It’s looking fifteen miles in the wrong damned direction. Check your ground surveillance plan.”

Patrick knew he had to step in himself—it wasn’t Harrison’s idea to look across the border into Turkey. “I just wanted to have a look across the border, Colonel.”

“Who is this?”

“McLanahan.”

“What are you doing on my net, General?” Wilhelm thundered. “I said you could observe and listen in, not talk, and I sure as hell didn’t authorize you to direct my sensor operators!”

“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I had a funny feeling about something, and I had to check it out.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than ask permission, eh, General?” Wilhelm sneered. “I heard that about you. I don’t care about your ‘funny feelings,’ McLanahan. Harrison, move that Reaper to cover…”

“Aren’t you even going to ask what I wanted to look at, Colonel?”

“I’m not, because nothing in Turkey interests me at the moment. In case you forgot, General, I have a reconnaissance platoon on the ground in action in Iraq, not Turkey. But as long as you bring it up, what in hell were you—”

“Rocket launch!” somebody cut in. On the monitor showing images broadcast from Kelly Two-Two, dozens of bright streaks of fire arced across the night sky—from across the border in Turkey!

“What the hell is that?” Wilhelm snapped. “Where is that coming from?”

“That’s a multiple rocket barrage from Turkey!” Patrick shouted. “Pull your men out of there, Colonel!”

“Shut the hell up, McLanahan!” Wilhelm shouted. But he rose out of his seat in horror, studied the image for a few heartbeats, then hit the button for the regimental network and cried, “All Warhammer players, all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, you have incoming artillery from the north, reverse direction, get away from Parrot now!”

“Say again?” one of the recon sections responded. “Say again, Warhammer!”

“I say again, all Warhammer players, this is Warhammer, you have twenty seconds to reverse direction of movement away from Objective Parrot, and then five seconds to take cover!” Wilhelm shouted. “Artillery inbound from the north! Move! Move!” On the Tank’s intercom he shouted, “Someone get the fucking Turkish army on the line and tell them to cease fire, we’ve got troops on the ground! Get medevac choppers in the air and get reinforcements out there immediately!”

“Send the B-1 across the border to those launch points, Colonel!” Patrick said. “If there are any more launchers, it’ll be able to—”

“I said shut up and get off my net, McLanahan!” Wilhelm snapped.

The Stryker reconnaissance patrols moved quickly, but not as fast as the incoming rockets. It took only ten seconds for the two dozen rockets to fly thirty miles and shower the Zahuk tunnel complex area with thousands of high-explosive antipersonnel and antitruck mines. Some mines exploded a few yards overhead, spraying the area below them with white-hot tungsten pellets; other mines detonated on contact with the ground, buildings, or vehicles with a high-explosive fragmentary warhead; and still others sat on the ground, where they would explode when disturbed or automatically after a certain period of time.

The second barrage occurred just a few moments later, aimed a few hundred yards west, east, and south of the first target area, designed to catch any who might have escaped the first bombardment. This was the attack that caught most of the retreating members of the American recon platoon. The mines tore through the light top armor on the Strykers from above, ripping them apart and leaving them open for the other high-explosive munitions to follow. Many of the dismounts who escaped the carnage inside their vehicles were lost to submunitions exploding overhead or underfoot as they tried to run for their lives.

In thirty seconds it was over. The stunned staff members watched it all in absolute horror, broadcast live via the Reaper and Predator drones high above.

President Joseph Gardner was logging off his computer in the private study adjacent to the Oval Office and had just reached for his jacket to call it a night and head up to the residence when the phone rang. It was his national security adviser, longtime friend, and former assistant secretary of the Navy, Conrad Carlyle. He hit the speakerphone button: “I was just about to call it a day, Conrad. Can it wait?”

“I wish I could, sir,” Carlyle said from a secure cell phone, probably in his car. His friend rarely called him “sir” when they spoke one-on-one unless it was an emergency, and this immediately got the president’s attention. “I’m en route to the White House, sir. Reports of a cross-border attack into Iraq by Turkey.”

Gardner’s heart rate went down a few percentage points. Neither Turkey nor least of all Iraq was a strategic threat to him right now—even goings-on in Iraq rarely caused long sleepless nights anymore. “Any of our guys involved?”

“A bunch.”

Heart rate back up again. What in hell happened? “Oh, shit.” He could almost taste that glass of rum over ice that he had his mind set on back up in the residence. “Are they set up in the Situation Room for me yet?”

“No, sir.”

“How much info do you have?”

“Very little.”

Time for one glass before the action really started ramping up. “I’ll be in the Oval Office. Come get me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gardner put a few ice cubes in an old Navy coffee mug, splashed some Ron Caneca rum into it, and took it out to the Oval Office. There was a crisis brewing somewhere, and it was important for onlookers around the world to stare through the windows and see the president of the United States hard at work—but that didn’t mean he had to deprive himself.

He turned the TV in the Oval Office to CNN, but there was nothing yet about any incident in Turkey. He could get the feeds from the Situation Room in his study, but he didn’t want to leave the Oval Office until the emergency was broadcast on worldwide TV and he was seen already watching it.

It was all about image, and Joe Gardner was a master at presenting a certain, specific, carefully crafted image. He always wore a collared shirt and tie except right before bed, and if he wasn’t wearing a jacket, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was slightly loosened to make it look like he was hard at work. He used speakerphones often, but when others could see him he always used a telephone handset so everyone could see him busily talking. He never used the delicate china cups either, preferring heavy, thick Navy coffee mugs for all his beverages, because he thought they made him look manlier.

Besides, like Jackie Gleason on TV with his teacup filled with booze, everyone would assume he was drinking coffee.

The White House chief of staff, Walter Kordus, knocked on the Oval Office door, waited the requisite few seconds in case there was any sign of protest, then let himself in. “I got the call from Conrad, Joe,” Kordus said. He was dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and Topsiders. Another longtime Gardner friend and ally, he was always available in a heartbeat and was probably lurking around the West Wing somewhere instead of being home with his wife and sizable stable of children. He looked at the flat-screen TV hidden in a cabinet. “Anything yet?”

“No.” Gardner raised his mug. “Have a drink. I’m almost one ahead of you.” The chief of staff dutifully fixed himself a mug of rum, but as usual he did not drink any of it.

It wasn’t until Carlyle blew through the Oval Office doors with a briefing folder in his hands that there was something on CNN, and it was only a mention on the scroll at the bottom of the screen of a “shooting incident” in northern Iraq. “It’s looking like a friendly-fire incident, sir,” Carlyle said. “An Army platoon was backing up an Iraqi infantry company on a sweep of a suspected al-Qaeda in Iraq tunnel entrance when the area was hit by Turkish medium-range unguided rockets.”

“Crap,” the president muttered. “Get Stacy Anne out here.”

“She’s on her way, and so is Miller,” Carlyle said. Stacy Anne Barbeau, a former U.S. senator from Louisiana who was as ambitious as she was flamboyant, had recently been confirmed as the new secretary of state; Miller Turner, yet another longtime Gardner friend and confidant, was the secretary of defense.

“Casualties?”

“Eleven dead, sixteen wounded, ten critically.”

“Je-sus.”

Over the next ten minutes, the president’s advisers or deputies filtered in to the Oval Office one by one. The last to arrive was Barbeau, looking as if she was ready for a night on the town. “My staff is in contact with the Turkish embassy and with the Turkish foreign ministry,” she said, heading right over to the coffee tray. “I’m expecting a call from each of them shortly.”

“Casualty count is up to thirteen and is expected to go higher, sir,” Turner said as he listened to a call from the Army corps commander. “They can’t say that the platoon itself was targeted, but it appears that the Iraqis and Turks were going after the same target.”

“Then if our guys were backing up the Iraqis, how did they get hit?”

“The contractors making the initial assessment say that the second round of rockets was meant to catch any survivors escaping from the target area.”

“Contractors?”

“As you know, sir,” National Security Adviser Carlyle said, “we’ve been able to greatly draw down our uniformed military forces in Iraq, Afghanistan, and many other forward areas around the world by replacing them with civilian contractors. Almost all military functions not involving direct action—security, reconnaissance, maintenance, communications, the list goes on—are done by contractors these days.”

The president nodded, already moving on to other details. “I need the names of the casualties so I can call the families.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any of these contractors get hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Figures,” the president said idly.

The phone on the president’s desk rang, and chief of staff Walter Kordus picked it up, listened, then held the receiver out to Barbeau. “Turkish prime minister Akas herself, Stacy, patched in from State.”

“That’s a good sign,” Barbeau said. She activated the translator on the president’s computer. “Good morning, Madam Prime Minister,” she said. “This is Secretary of State Barbeau.”

At the same moment another phone rang. “Turkish president Hirsiz on the line for you, sir.”

“He better have some explanations,” Gardner said, taking the receiver. “Mr. President, this is Joseph Gardner.”

“President Gardner, good evening,” Kurzat Hirsiz said in very good English, his voice fairly quivering with anxiety, “I am sorry to disturb you, but I just heard about the terrible tragedy that occurred on the Iraq border, and on behalf of all the people of Turkey, I wanted to immediately call and express my sadness, regret, and sorrow to the families of the men that died as a result of this horrible accident.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Gardner said. “Now what the hell happened?”

“An inexcusable error on the part of our interior security forces,” Hirsiz said. “They received information that Kurdish PKK insurgents and terrorists were massing at a tunnel complex in Iraq and were planning another attack on a Turkish airport or military airfield, larger and more devastating than the recent attack in Diyarbakir. The information came from very reliable sources.

“They said that the numbers of PKK fighters were in the hundreds in the tunnel complex, which is very extensive and crisscrosses the Iraq border over a wide area. It was determined that we did not have enough time to gather a force sufficient to destroy such a large force in so dangerous an area, so it was decided to attack using a rocket barrage. I gave the order to attack personally, and so it is my error and my responsibility.”

“For God’s sake, Mr. President, why didn’t you tell us first?” Gardner asked. “We’re allies and friends, remember? You know we have forces in that area operating day and night to secure the border area and hunt down insurgents, including the PKK. One quick phone call alerting us and we could’ve pulled our forces out without alerting the terrorists.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, Mr. President,” Hirsiz said. “But our informant told us that the terrorists would be on the move shortly, and we had to act quickly. There was no time—”

“No time? Thirteen dead Americans who were in a support role only, Mr. President! And we don’t even have the Iraqi casualty count yet! You should have made the time!”

“Yes, yes, I agree, Mr. President, and it was a horrible omission that I deeply regret and for which I personally apologize,” Hirsiz said, this time with an obvious edge in his voice. There was a slight pause; then: “But may I remind you, sir, that we were not informed about the Iraqi operation, either from you or the Iraqi government. Such a notification would have also prevented this accident.”

“Don’t start passing around the blame now, Mr. President,” Gardner snapped. “Thirteen Americans are dead because of your artillery barrage, which was targeted inside Iraq, not on Turkish soil! That is inexcusable!”

“I agree, I agree, sir,” Hirsiz said stonily. “I do not dispute that, and I do not seek to lay blame where it does not belong. But the tunnel complex was under the Iraq-Turkish border, the terrorists were massing in Iraq, and we know the insurgents live, plot, and gather weapons and supplies in Iraq and Iran. It was a legitimate target, no matter which side of the border. We know the Kurds in Iraq harbor and support the PKK, and the Iraqi government does little to stop them. We must act because the Iraqis will not.”

“President Hirsiz, I’m not going to get into an argument with you on what the Iraqi government does or does not do with the PKK,” Gardner said irritably. “I want a full and complete explanation of what happened, and I demand a pledge from you to do everything in your power to see to it that it doesn’t happen again. We’re allies, sir. Disasters like this can and must be avoided, and it appears that if you had done your duty as an ally and friendly neighbor of Iraq and communicated better with us, this could have…”

“Bir saniye! Excuse me, sir?” Hirsiz said. There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line, and Gardner heard someone in the background say the word sik, which the computerized translator said meant “head of a penis.” “Pardon me, Mr. President, but as I explained to you, we thought we were attacking PKK terrorists that have only recently killed almost two dozen innocent men, women, and children in a major Turkish city. The incident in Zahuk was a horrible mistake, for which I am fully responsible and sincerely apologize to you, the families of the dead, and the people of America. But this does not give you the right to demand anything from this government.”

“There’s no reason for obscenities, President Hirsiz,” Gardner said, so flustered and angry that veins stood out on his forehead. He noticed Hirsiz did not deny or dispute the allegation, or was surprised that Gardner knew of it. “We will conduct a full investigation on this attack, and I expect your utmost cooperation. I want your complete assurance that you communicate with us and your NATO partners better in the future so attacks like this won’t happen again.”

“It was not an attack against your troops or the Iraqis, but against suspected PKK insurgents and terrorists, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Please choose your words more carefully, Mr. President. It was an accident, a tragic mistake that occurred in the defense of the homeland of the Republic of Turkey. I take responsibility for a terrible accident, sir, not an attack.”

“All right, Mr. President, all right,” Gardner said. “We will be in contact shortly regarding the arrival of forensic, military, and criminal investigators. Good night, sir.”

“I yi akşamlar. Good night, Mr. President.”

Gardner slammed the phone down. “Damn, you’d think he lost thirteen men!” he said. “Stacy?”

“I caught a little of your conversation, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “The prime minister was apologetic, almost over-the-top so. I felt she was sincere, although she clearly sees it as an accident for which they only share responsibility.”

“Yeah? And if it was an American rocket barrage and dead Turkish troops, we’d be crucified by not just Turkey but by the entire world—we’d get all the blame and then some,” Gardner said. He sat back in his chair and ran an exasperated hand over his face. “All right, all right, screw the Turks for now. Someone messed up here, and I want to know who, and I want some butts—Turkish, Iraqi, PKK, or Americans, I don’t care, I want some butts.” He turned to the secretary of defense. “Miller, I’m going to appoint a chair to handle the investigation. I want this public—in-your-face, rough, tough, and direct. This is the greatest number of casualties in Iraq since I’ve been in office, and I’m not going to get this administration bogged down in Iraq.” He glanced for a moment at Stacy Barbeau, who made a very slight gesture with her eyes. Gardner picked up on it immediately and turned to the vice president, Kenneth T. Phoenix. “Ken, how about it? You definitely have the background.”

“Absolutely, sir,” he replied without hesitation. Kenneth Phoenix, just forty-six years old, could have been one of America’s fastest rising political stars—if only he didn’t work so hard. Law degree from UCLA, four years as a judge advocate in the U.S. Marine Corps, four years in the U.S. attorney’s office in the District of Columbia, then various offices in the Department of Justice before being nominated as attorney general.

In the years after the horror of the American holocaust, Phoenix worked tirelessly to assure the American public and the world that the United States of America would not slip into martial law. He was relentless with lawbreakers and pursued anyone, regardless of political affiliation or wealth, who sought to prey on victims of the Russian attacks. He was equally relentless with Congress and even the White House to make sure that individual rights were not violated as the government got to work rebuilding the nation and resecuring its borders.

He was so popular with the American people that there was talk of him being nominated for president of the United States to oppose another very popular man, then secretary of defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner had switched party affiliations because of his disagreements with the Martindale administration, and the move hurt his chances of winning. But in a flash of political genius, Joseph Gardner asked Phoenix to be his running mate, even though they were not in the same party. The strategy worked. The voters saw the move as a strong sign of unity and wisdom, and they won in a landslide.

“Do you think it’s a good idea sending the vice president to Iraq and Turkey, Mr. President?” the chief of staff asked. “It’s still pretty dangerous out there.”

“I’ve been monitoring the security status of Iraq, and I believe it’s plenty safe for me,” Phoenix said.

“He’s got a point, Ken,” the president said. “I thought about your qualifications and expertise, not about your safety. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, sir,” Phoenix said. “I’ll do it. It’s important to show how serious we are about this attack—to all the players in the Middle East, not just the Turks.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll keep my head down, sir, don’t worry,” Phoenix said. “I’ll put a team together from the Pentagon, Justice, and National Intelligence and leave tonight.”

“Tonight?” Gardner nodded and smiled. “I knew I picked the right guy. Okay, Ken, thank you, you’re on. Stacy will get all the clearances you’ll need from Baghdad, Ankara, and anywhere else the investigation takes you. If we need you back in the Senate to break a tie, maybe I’ll send a Black Stallion spaceplane out to get you.”

“I’d love to get a ride in one, sir. Send one for me, and I’ll take it.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Vice President.” Gardner got to his feet and started to pace. “I know I’ve said I want to draw down our forces in Iraq over sixteen months, but it’s taken longer than I thought. This incident highlights the dangers our troops face out there every day, even when we’re not in direct contact with the enemy. It’s time to talk about drawing down our forces quicker and removing more forces. Thoughts?”

“The American people will certainly agree, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Barbeau said, “especially after news of this disaster gets out in the morning.”

“We’ve spoken about the possibility many times, sir,” National Security Adviser Carlyle said. “One mechanized infantry brigade in Baghdad on a twelve-month rotation; one training regiment on a six-month rotation; and we conduct frequent joint training exercises with units deployed from the States for no more than a month or two throughout the country. Day-to-day security and surveillance provided by private contractors, with infrequent special ops missions around the region as needed.”

“Sounds good to me,” the president said. “One soldier dies and it’s front-page news, but it takes at least six contractors to die before anyone notices. Let’s work up the details and get a plan drawn up pronto.” To his other advisers, he said, “Okay, I want an update on the Iraq attack at the seven a.m. staff briefing. Thank you, everyone.” Just as the group was departing the Oval Office, the president asked, “Secretary Barbeau, a word with you in the study?”

After the door was closed, the president fixed the former senator from Louisiana a bourbon and water. They toasted each other, then she lightly kissed him on the lips, being careful not to get too much lipstick on him—after all, the first lady was upstairs in the residence. “Thanks for recommending Phoenix, Stacy,” Gardner said. “Good choice—it’ll get him out of here for a change. He’s always underfoot.”

“I agree—he’s much too curious sometimes,” Barbeau said. She curled her lower lip in a pout. “But I wish you had consulted me first. I can think of a dozen better-qualified persons from our party that could’ve headed the team.”

“Walter briefed me that there were rumblings in Washington about keeping Phoenix too deep in the background and squashing his political future,” Gardner said.

“Well, that’s what typically happens to vice presidents.”

“I know, but I need to keep him on the ticket when I run for the second term, and I don’t want pissed-off party bosses encouraging him to leave so he can run himself,” Gardner said, fixing himself another coffee mug of Puerto Rican rum on ice. “This is a good high-profile assignment that’ll please his supporters, but it’s out of the country with not a lot of media around; it’ll show I’m serious about investigating the incident, but nothing will come of it, so if anyone gets hurt, it’ll be him; but more importantly, it’s a subject that will fade from public attention quickly because it involves dead American soldiers. Send your experts’ names to Phoenix and let’s see if he takes any of them.”

“Perhaps,” Barbeau said, her eyes glittering with intrigue, “the vice president will forget to duck or put on his body armor, and just like that we’ll need a new vice president.”

“Je-sus, Stacy, don’t even joke about shit like that,” Gardner breathed. His eyes rose in surprise at her words; he waited to see if she would smile and laugh the dark thought away, but was not shocked to see that she did not.

“I would never wish any harm on the lovely and hunky Kenneth Timothy Phoenix,” she said. “But he is going into harm’s way, and you need to think about what we’ll do if the worst happens.”

“I would have to appoint his replacement, of course. I’ve got a list.”

Barbeau put the bourbon on a table and slowly, tantalizingly, approached the president. “Am I on your list, Mr. President?” she asked in a low, sultry voice, running her fingers under the lapels of his jacket, caressing his chest.

“Oh, you’re on many lists, darlin.’ But then I’d have to hire a food taster around here, wouldn’t I?”

She didn’t stop—and, he noticed, she didn’t refute his joke, either. “I don’t want the office by succession, Joe—I know I can earn it on my own,” she said in a low, rather singsong voice. She looked up at him with her beautiful green eyes…and Gardner saw nothing but menace in them. She kissed him lightly on the lips again, her eyes open and staring directly into his, and after the kiss she added, “But I’ll take it any way I can.”

The president smiled and shook his head ruefully as she headed for the door. “I don’t know who’s in greater danger, Miss Secretary of State: the vice president in Iraq…or whoever gets in your way right here in Washington.”

“How dare he?” Turkish minister of national defense Hasan Cizek stormed as President Hirsiz replaced the receiver on the hook. “That is an insult! Gardner should apologize to you, and do it immediately!”

“Calm yourself, Minister,” Prime Minister Ays¸e Akas said. With her, Hirsiz, and Cizek was the entire national security staff: secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council General Orhan Sahin, foreign minister Mustafa Hamarat, military chief of staff General Abdullah Guzlev, and Fevsi Guclu, the director of the National Intelligence Organization, which performed all domestic and foreign intelligence operations. “Gardner was upset and not thinking straight. And he heard that obscenity. Are you insane?”

“Don’t apologize for that drunkard lech, Prime Minister,” Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat said. “The president of the United States shouldn’t pop off at a head of state and an ally—I don’t care how tired or upset he is. He lost his head in a time of crisis, and that was wrong.”

“Everyone, quiet down,” President Kurzat Hirsiz said, holding up his hands almost as if in surrender. “I took no offense. We made the requisite call and apologized—”

“Groveled is more like it!” Cizek spat.

“Our rockets killed a dozen Americans and probably several dozen Iraqis, Hasan; maybe a little groveling is warranted here.” Hirsiz scowled at the minister of national defense. “It’s what he says or does next that will tell.” He turned to the secretary-general of the National Security Council. “General, are you absolutely positive that your information was accurate, actionable, and an immediate response was required?”

“I am positive, sir,” he heard a voice say. He turned and saw General Besir Ozek, commander of the Jandarma, standing in the doorway to his office, with a frightened aide behind him. Ozek had taken off all the bandages on his face, neck, and hands, and the sight was truly repulsive.

“General Ozek!” Hirsiz blurted out, momentarily shocked by the general’s presence, then nauseated by his appearance. He swallowed hard, squinting against the revulsion he felt, then ashamed for letting the others see it. “I didn’t summon you, sir. You are not well. You should be in hospital.”

“There was no time to notify the Americans either—and if we did, the information would have been leaked to PKK sympathizers, and the opportunity would have been lost,” Ozek went on, as if the president had not said a word.

Hirsiz nodded, turning away from Ozek’s awful wounds. “Thank you, General. You are dismissed.”

“If I may speak freely, sir: my heart is sickened by what I just heard,” Ozek said.

“General?”

“Sickened by the number of times I heard the president of the Republic of Turkey apologize like a young boy caught feeding the goldfish to the cat. With all due respect, Mr. President, it was repulsive.”

“That’s enough, General,” Prime Minister Akas said. “Show some respect.”

“We were doing nothing more than defending our nation,” Ozek said angrily. “We have nothing to apologize for, sir.”

“Innocent Americans died, General…”

“They thought they were chasing al-Qaeda in Iraq terrorists, not PKK,” Ozek retorted. “If the Iraqis had any brains, they would know as well as we that the tunnel complex was a PKK hideout, not al-Qaeda.”

“Are you sure of this, General?”

“Positive, sir,” Ozek insisted. “Al-Qaeda insurgents hide and operate in the cities, not the countryside like the PKK. If the Americans bothered to learn this—or if the Iraqis cared—this incident would not have happened.”

President Hirsiz fell silent and turned away—to think, as well as not to have to look at Ozek’s terrible wounds. “Nevertheless, General, the incident has sparked anger and outrage in Washington, and we must appear conciliatory, apologetic, and utterly cooperative,” he said after a few moments. “They will send investigators, and we must assist their inquiry.”

“Sir, we can’t let that happen,” Ozek cried. “We can’t let the Americans or the international community keep us from defending this nation. You know as well as I that the focus of any investigation will be about our faults and our policies, not about the PKK or their attacks. We must act, now. Do something, sir!”

The prime minister’s eyes blazed in anger. “As you were, General Ozek!” she shouted. The veteran Jandarma officer’s eyes blazed, which made his visage even more frightful. The prime minister raised a finger at him to silence his expected retort. “Not another word, General, or I will order Minister Cizek to relieve you of your post, and I will strip the rank off your uniform myself.”

“If all we had hit were PKK terrorists, few outside our country would have cared about the strike,” Ozek said. “Our people would have seen this as what it truly was: a major victory against the PKK, not an example of military incompetence or racism.”

“Minister Cizek, you will relieve General Ozek of command,” Akas said.

“I recommend calm here, Madam Prime Minister…” Cizek sputtered. “There has been a terrible accident, yes, but we were only doing our duty to protect our country…”

“I said, I want Ozek dismissed!” the prime minister shouted. “Do it now!”

“Shut up!” President Hirsiz shouted, almost pleading. “Everyone, please shut up!” The president looked as if his internal struggles were ready to tear him apart. He looked at his advisers and seemed to find no answers. Turning back to Ozek, he said in a quiet voice, “Many innocent Americans and Iraqis were killed tonight, General.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Ozek said. “I take full responsibility. But will we ever learn how many PKK terrorists we killed tonight? And if the Americans or Iraqis leading this so-called investigation ever told us how many terrorists were eliminated, will we ever get the chance to tell the world what they did to innocent Turks?” Hirsiz did not respond, only stared at a spot on the wall, so Ozek stiffened to attention and turned to leave.

“Wait, General,” Hirsiz said.

“You’re not going to consider that idea, Kurzat!” Prime Minister Akas said, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

“The general is right, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “This is yet another incident for which Turkey will be vilified…” And at that, he reached down, grasped his chair with both hands, and toppled it over with a quick thrust: “and I am sick of it! I am not going to look into the eyes of Turkish men and women and make more promises and excuses! I want it to end. I want the PKK to fear this government…no, I want the Americans, the Iraqis, the whole world to fear us! I’m tired of being everyone’s patsy! Minister Cizek!”

“Sir!”

“I want to see a plan of action on my desk as soon as possible, outlining an operation to destroy the PKK training camps and facilities in Iraq,” Hirsiz said. “I want to minimize noncombatant casualties, and I want it quick, efficient, and thorough. We know we’re going to get blasted by the entire world, and the pressure will be on to withdraw almost from day one, so it will have to be an operation that is fast, effective, and massive.”

“Yes, sir,” Cizek said. “With pleasure.”

Hirsiz stepped over to Ozek and placed his hands on the general’s shoulders, this time not afraid of looking him in his badly injured face. “I vow,” he said, “never to have one of my generals take responsibility for an operation I authorized. I am the commander in chief. When this operation begins, General, if you’re up to it, I want you to lead the forces that will strike at the heart of the PKK. If you’re strong enough to get out of a crashed plane and then come here to Ankara to confront me, you’re strong enough to crush the PKK.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ozek said.

Hirsiz turned to the other advisers in the room. “Ozek was the only one who spoke his mind to the president—that’s the kind of person I want advising me from this day forward. Put a plan together to defeat the PKK once and for all.”