Rogue Forces

CHAPTER FOUR

Voices in the Tank were much more muted than before; no one spoke except to make a report or observation. If they were not otherwise occupied, the department heads, operators, and specialists sat straight up in their seats and stared straight ahead—no chatting with comrades, no stretching, no sign of idleness.

Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle staff room, took his seat at the front console, and donned his headset. Without turning to face his staff, he spoke over the intercom: “We’ve been ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, reconnaissance, and intel. No IA combat support until further notice.”

“But all that stuff is done by the contractors, sir,” someone remarked on intercom. “What are we going to do?”

“We are going to train in case the shit hits the fan with Turkey,” Wilhelm replied.

“Are we at war with Turkey, sir?” the regimental executive officer, Mark Weatherby, asked.

“Negative,” Wilhelm replied tonelessly.

“Then why are we standing down, sir?” the regimental ops officer, Kenneth Bruno, asked. “We didn’t fuck up. We should be blasting hell out of the Turks for—”

“I asked the same questions and made the same comments,” Wilhelm interrupted, “and I was told by the Pentagon to pipe down, too, so now I’m telling you: pipe down. Listen up and pass the word to your troops:

“We are permanently on Force Protection Condition Delta. If I see you in the sunshine without your full battle rattle, and you’re not already dead, I will kill you myself. This base will be sealed up tighter than a flea’s poop chute. Woe befalls anyone who is seen without ID visible and displayed in the proper location, and that includes the senior staff and especially the civilians.

“As of this moment, this base is on a wartime footing—if we’re not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that is living and working with us, we’ll sure as hell defend ourselves,” Wilhelm went on. “We will not be sitting idly around with our thumbs up our asses—we’ll continue training as much as we’re allowed until we rotate out. Next, the Triple-C will be turned over to the IA as soon as—”

“What?” someone exclaimed.

“I said, pipe down,” Wilhelm snapped. “Official word from the Pentagon: we’re not going to be relieved. We’re closing up shop and turning the Triple-C over to the IA. All combat forces are moving out of Iraq, ahead of schedule. The IA is taking over.” It was the day many in that room had been praying for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but strangely no one was celebrating. “Well?” Wilhelm asked, looking around the Tank. “Aren’t you mokes happy?”

There was a long silence; then Mark Weatherly said, “It makes us look like we’re running, sir.”

“It makes us look like we can’t take a hit,” someone else chimed in.

“I know it does,” Wilhelm said. “But we know differently.” That didn’t seem to convince anyone—the silence was palpable. “We’ll uninstall all the classified stuff—which in the absence of detailed instructions will be most of our gear as far as I’m concerned—but the rest will be turned over to the Iraqi Army. We’ll still be here to train and assist the IA, but not with combat operations. It hasn’t been worked out whether their idea of ‘security operations’ is the same as ours, so we may still see some action, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Where’s McLanahan?”

“I’m up, Colonel,” Patrick replied over the command network. “I’m in the hangar.”

“The regiment’s main task now is to support the contractors,” Wilhelm said, his voice dead-cold and emotionless, “because all surveillance and security will be done by them. The Army is now just a trip-wire force, like we were in Korea before unification, and we’ll probably be reduced to an even lower size than we were before we left there completely. General McLanahan, get together with Captain Cotter and figure out airspace coordination with logistics flights, the UAVs, and your spook planes.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“McLanahan, I’ll meet you at the hangar in five. Everyone else, the exec will be meeting with you to discuss removing the classified gear and starting a training program. Oh, one more thing: the memorial service for Second Platoon will be tonight; they’ll be flown out to Germany tomorrow morning. That is all.” He threw his headset onto the desk and strode out without as much as a glance to anyone else.

The XC-57 had been moved to a large tent outdoors so the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare the fallen members of Second Platoon for their flight out of Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport had flown aluminum transfer cases in from Kuwait, and they were being unstacked in preparation for loading. Tables with the remains of the troops in body bags were lined up, and medical personnel, mortuary and registration volunteers, and fellow soldiers moved up and down the rows to assist, pray for them, or to say good-bye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to hold the remains of the more seriously decimated soldiers.

Wilhelm found Patrick standing beside one of the body bags, with a volunteer waiting to zip the bag up. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing across from him, he said, “Specialist Gamaliel came in last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space-planes. He told me he always wanted to fly and was thinking about crossing over to the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and then he left to join his platoon.”

Wilhelm looked at the badly scarred and bloodied body, said a silent thank you, Trooper, then said aloud, “We need to talk, General.” He nodded at the waiting soldiers, who reverently finished zipping the body bag closed. He followed Patrick down the line of body bags, then to an isolated portion of the hangar. “We’ve got VIPs flying in later today on a CV-22 Osprey,” he said.

“Vice President Phoenix. I know.”

“How the hell do you know all these things so quickly, McLanahan?”

“He’s flying in on our second XC-57 aircraft, not on the Osprey,” Patrick said. “They’re afraid the Osprey is too much of a target.”

“You guys must be plugged into the White House pretty tightly to pull that off.” Patrick said nothing. “Did you have anything to do with the decision to cease combat operations?”

“You knew you were winding down combat ops, Colonel,” Patrick said. “The Zakhu incident just accelerated things. As for how I know certain things…it’s my job to know or learn things. I use all the tools at my disposal to gather as much information as I can.”

Wilhelm took a step toward Patrick…but this time it was not menacing or threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question, one that he didn’t want others to hear in case it might reveal his own fears or confusion. “Who are you guys?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. “What in hell is going on around here?”

For the first time, Patrick softened his opinion of the regimental commander. He certainly knew what it was like to lose men in combat and lose control of a situation, and he understood what Wilhelm was feeling. But he didn’t yet deserve an answer or explanation.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane coming in.”

The second XC-57 Loser aircraft touched down at Nahla Allied Air Base at eight P.M. local time. It had been preceded by a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport plane that the press and local dignitaries had been told would be carrying the vice president. The CV-22 executed the standard “high-performance” arrival—a high-speed dash into the base from high altitude, followed by a steep circle over the base to lose speed and altitude—and encountered no difficulties. By the time security forces had escorted the Osprey into a hangar, the XC-57 had already landed and taxied safely to another part of the base.

Jack Wilhelm, Patrick McLanahan, Jon Masters, Kris Thompson, and Mark Weatherly, all wearing identical civilian clothes—blue jeans, boots, plain shirt, sunglasses, and a tan vest, very similar to what Kris Thompson’s security forces typically wore—stood beside the XC-57 as the vice president climbed down the boarding ladder.

The only one in uniform was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, the Iraqi commander of Allied Air Base Nahla. He was in his usual desert gray battle dress uniform, but this time was wearing a green beret with an array of medals pinned to the blouse, black ascot, spit-shined boots and pistol holster, and a .45 caliber automatic pistol. He did not say anything to anyone except his aide, but he seemed to be watching Patrick, as if he wanted to speak with him.

No one except Jaffar saluted as Vice President Kenneth Phoenix stepped to the ground. Phoenix was dressed almost exactly as the other Americans—it looked like a gaggle of civilian security guards. Several other men and women alighted, dressed similarly.

Phoenix looked around, grinning at the sight, until his eyes finally locked onto a familiar face. “Thank God I recognize someone. I was starting to feel like I was having a weird dream.” He stepped over to Patrick and extended a hand. “Good to see you, General.”

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Vice President. Welcome to Iraq.”

“I wish it was under happier circumstances. So, you’re working for the ‘dark side’ now: the evil defense contractors.” Patrick made no response. “Introduce me around.”

“Yes, sir. Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla.”

Jaffar did not lower his salute until he was introduced, and then he stood at rigid attention until Phoenix extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”

Jaffar shook his hand as stiffly as he stood. “I am honored you have you visit my base and my country, sir,” he said in a booming voice, his words obviously well rehearsed. “Es salaam alekum. Welcome to the Republic of Iraq and to Allied Air Base Nahla.”

“Es salaam alekum,” Phoenix said with a surprisingly good Arabic accent. “I am sorry for your losses, sir.”

“My men served with honor and died as martyrs in the service of their country,” Jaffar said. “They sit at the right hand of God. As for the ones who did this, they shall pay dearly.” He snapped to attention and looked away from Phoenix, terminating their conversation.

“Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jack Wilhelm, regimental commander.”

Phoenix extended a hand, and Wilhelm took it. “I’m very sorry for your losses, Colonel,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you come directly to me.”

“For now my only request is your presence at the departure ceremony for Second Platoon, sir. It’ll be in a couple hours.”

“Of course, Colonel. I’ll be there.” Wilhelm introduced the others from his command, and the vice president introduced the others who arrived with him. Kris Thompson then led them to waiting armored vehicles.

Before Patrick climbed into an armored Suburban, Jaffar’s aide came up to him and saluted. “My apologies for the interruption, sir,” the aide said in very good English. “The colonel wishes to speak with you.”

Patrick looked over at Jaffar, who was partially turned away from him. “Can it wait until our briefing with the vice president is over?”

“The colonel will not be attending the briefing, sir. Please?” Patrick nodded and motioned for the driver to go.

The Iraqi snapped to attention and saluted when Patrick stepped over to him. Patrick returned his salute. “General McLanahan. I apologize for the interruption.”

“You won’t be attending the briefing with the vice president, Colonel?”

“It would be an insult to my commander and the chief of staff of the Iraqi army for me to attend such a meeting before them,” Jaffar explained. “These protocols must be observed.” He glared at McLanahan, then added, “I should think that your commanding officers and diplomats in Baghdad would be similarly offended.”

“It’s the vice president’s decision, not ours.”

“The vice president cares little for such protocols?”

“He’s here to find out what happened and how our government can help get things straightened out, not observe protocols.”

Jaffar nodded. “I see.”

“He might think that you not attending the briefing is a breach of protocol, Colonel. He is here to help Iraq and the Iraqi army, after all.”

“Is that so, General?” Jaffar asked, a razor-sharp edge to his voice. “He comes unbidden to our country and expects me to attend a briefing that our president has not yet heard?” He made a show of thinking about his point, then nodded. “Please make my apologies to the vice president.”

“Of course. I can brief you later if you’d prefer.”

“That would be acceptable, General,” Jaffar said. “Sir, may I have permission to inspect your reconnaissance aircraft at your earliest convenience?”

Patrick was a little surprised: Jaffar hadn’t shown any interest in their activities whatsoever in the short time he’d been there. “There are some systems and devices that are classified and I can’t—”

“I understand, sir. I believe you call it NOFORN—no foreign nationals. I understand completely.”

“Then I’d be happy to show it to you,” Patrick said. “I can brief you on tonight’s reconnaissance run, show you the aircraft before the preflight inspections, and go over the unclassified data as we receive it to show you our capabilities. I’ll have to get Colonel Wilhelm’s and my company’s permission, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Nineteen hundred hours, in your office?”

“That is acceptable, General McLanahan,” Jaffar said. Patrick nodded and extended a hand, but Jaffar snapped to attention, saluted, spun on a heel, and walked quickly away to his waiting car, followed by his aide. Patrick shook his head, confused, then jumped into a waiting Humvee, which took him to the Command and Control Center.

Wilhelm was waiting for him in the conference room overlooking the Tank. Mark Weatherly was introducing the vice president to some of the staff members and explaining the layout of the Triple-C and the Tank. “Where’s Jaffar?” Wilhelm asked in a low voice.

“He’s not coming to the briefing. Said it would insult his commanders if he spoke with the vice president first.”

“Damn hajjis—this was supposed to be for his benefit,” Wilhelm said. “Why the hell didn’t he tell me himself?” Patrick didn’t answer. “What were you two talking about?”

“He wants to tour the Loser, get a briefing on our capabilities, and watch the next recon mission.”

“Since when is he interested in any of that stuff?” Wilhelm growled. “Today, of all days, just after us getting our asses chewed up and with Washington crawling up and down our backs.”

“I told him I needed your permission first.”

Wilhelm was about to say no, but he just shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “He’s entitled to be in the Tank for all operations—we keep the commander’s seat open for him, for God’s sake, even though he’s never been in it—so I guess I don’t have any choice. But he doesn’t get to see the NOFORN stuff.”

“I told him the same thing, and he understands. He even knew that term.”

“Probably saw it in a movie and likes to parrot it every chance he gets. I’ll bet it sticks in his craw.” Wilhelm shook his head again, as if erasing the entire conversation from his head. “Are you still going to tell the vice president your theory?”

“Yes.”

“Only you can add two and two and come up with five. It’s your funeral. Okay, let’s get this over with.” Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who cut his talk short and motioned the vice president to a waiting seat.

Wilhelm stood uncomfortably at the dais as everyone settled in. “Mr. Vice President, distinguished visitors, thank you for this visit,” he began. “Your presence so quickly after the tragedy last night sends a clear and important signal to not just the regiment but to all of the players in this conflict. My staff and I stand ready to assist you in your investigation.

“I know there are a lot of VIPs—the Iraqi prime minister, the ambassador, the commander of coalition forces in Iraq—waiting to greet you who will be very angry to learn that you came here instead of going to base headquarters to meet them,” Wilhelm went on, “but General McLanahan and I thought you needed to hear from us first. Unfortunately, the base commander, Colonel Jaffar, will not be here.”

“Did he say why not, Colonel?” the vice president asked.

“He told me it would be a breach of protocol to talk with you before his superior officers did, sir,” Patrick replied. “He sends his regrets.”

“It was his men that were killed and his homeland that was attacked. Who cares who hears from us first?”

“Would you like me to get him back here, sir?”

“No, let’s press on,” Phoenix said. “I’m not really concerned about stepping on toes right now, except for the ones responsible for killing our soldiers, and then I’ll make sure that bastard is taken down.

“Okay, gents, I wanted to get this briefing from you because I know the Iraqis, Kurds, and Turks want to brief me soon, and I know they’re going to spin it their way; I wanted to get the first word from you. The word from the Turks is that they’re not doing anything except defending their homeland against the PKK and that the bombardment was a tragic but simple mistake. Let’s hear your take.”

“Roger that, sir.” The electronic display behind Wilhelm flared to life, showing a map of the border region between northern Iraq and southeast Turkey. “They’ve increased their Jandarma border forces over the past year or so, including special ops battalions, along with a few more aviation units, to help deal with the PKK cross-border incursions. They’ve sent a few regular army units to the southwest as well, perhaps one or two brigades.”

“Much bigger than normal deployments, I assume?” the vice president asked.

“Substantially bigger, sir, even considering the recent PKK terror attacks at Diyarbakir,” Wilhelm replied.

“And what do we have on this side?”

“Together with the Iraqis, sir—about a third of their force, and a fraction of the air forces,” Wilhelm replied. “The biggest threat is their tactical air forces in the region. Diyarbakir is home to Second Tactical Air Forces Command, responsible for the defense of the Syria, Iraq, and Iran border regions. They have two wings of F-16 fighter-bombers and one wing of F-4E Phantom fighter-bombers, plus one new wing of A-10 Thunderbolt Two close air support aircraft and one wing of F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers, recently acquired from the United States as surplus equipment.”

“Surplus F-15s—that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” the vice president said, shaking his head. “Aren’t they still undefeated in combat?”

“I believe so, sir,” Wilhelm said. “But with the recent drawdown of U.S. Air Force fighters in favor of Navy and Marines carrier-based tactical fighters, a lot of good Americans weapons came on the export market.”

“I know, I know—I fought hard to stop the outflow of such high-tech stuff,” Phoenix said. “But President Gardner is a real military expert as well as a big supporter of the Navy, and Congress was solidly behind his transformation and modernization plans. The Air Force got hosed, and countries like Turkey are reaping the benefits. If we can’t convert F-22s for carrier ops, Turkey is likely to get Raptors, too. Okay, soapbox over. Please continue, Colonel. What other threats are you facing?”

“Their larger antiaircraft systems such as the Patriot missile, large-caliber radar-guided triple-A, and British Rapier surface-to-air missiles are arrayed against Iran and Syria,” Wilhelm went on. “We can expect them to move some systems farther west, but of course Iraq is not a threat from the air, so I think they’ll keep their SAMs deployed against Iran and Syria. Smaller guns and shoulder-fired Stinger missiles can be encountered anywhere and are widely deployed in armored battalions.

“The Turkish Jandarma paramilitary forces deploy several special operations battalions, mostly to hunt down and destroy PKK insurgent and terror units. They get a lot of good training, and we consider them to be equivalent to a Marine recon unit—light, fast, mobile, and deadly.”

“Their commander, General Besir Ozek, was badly hurt in the last big PKK attack in Diyarbakir,” Patrick added, “but he’s apparently up and around and directing his forces in hunt-and-kill operations throughout the border regions. He’s undoubtedly the one who executed the rocket attack on Zakhu.”

“I definitely need to have a talk with him,” the vice president said. “So, Colonel, what’s your explanation for all this activity?”

“It’s not my job to analyze, sir,” Wilhelm said, “but they’re gearing up for an offensive against the PKK. They’re backing up the Jandarma with regular military forces in a show of force. The PKK will scatter and keep their heads down; the Turks will hit a few bases, and then everything will go back to relative normalcy. The PKK’s been doing this for over thirty years—Turkey can’t stop them.”

“Sending in the regular military—that’s something they haven’t done before,” Phoenix observed. He glanced at Patrick. “General, you are suddenly quiet.” He looked back at Wilhelm. “There appears to be disagreement here. Colonel?”

“Sir, General McLanahan is of the opinion that this buildup of Turkish forces in this region is a prelude to a full-scale invasion of Iraq.”

“An invasion of Iraq?” Phoenix exclaimed. “I know they’ve done a lot of cross-border raids over the years, but why a full invasion, General?”

“Sir, it’s exactly because they have done a lot of raids, and they haven’t succeeded in stopping or even slowing the number of PKK attacks, that will prompt them to stage an all-out assault on the PKK in Iraq—not just the strongholds, training bases, and supply dumps along the border, but on the Kurdish leadership themselves. I think they’ll want to crush the PKK problem in one lightning thrust and kill as many as they can before American and international pressure forces them to withdraw.”

“Colonel?”

“The Turks simply don’t have the manpower, sir,” Wilhelm said. “We’re talking about an operation similar in scope to Desert Storm—two hundred and fifty thousand troops, minimum. The Turkish army is approximately four hundred thousand total, mostly conscripts. They would need to commit one-third of their regular armed forces plus another one-half of their reserves for this one operation. That would take months and billions of dollars. The Turkish army is simply not an expeditionary force—they’re built for anti-insurgent operations and self-defense, not for invading other countries.”

“General?”

“The Turks would be fighting from their own soil and fighting for self-preservation and national pride,” Patrick said. “If they committed half of their regular and reserve forces, they’d have close to half a million troops available, and they have a very large pool of trained veterans to use. I see no reason why they wouldn’t order a full mobilization of all forces for a chance to destroy the PKK once and for all.

“But the new game-changing factor in play here is the Turkish air force,” Patrick went on. “In years past, the Turkish military was mostly an internal counterinsurgency force with a secondary role as a NATO trip wire against the Soviet Union. Its navy is good but it’s tasked mostly for defending the Bosporus and Dardanelles and patrolling the Aegean Sea. The air force was relatively small because it relied on the U.S. Air Force for support.

“But in just the past two years that’s changed, and now Turkey has the largest air force in Europe except for Russia. They’ve been buying a lot more than surplus F-15s, sir—they bought all sorts of surplus noncarrier qualified attack aircraft, including the A-10 Thunderbolt tactical bombers, AC-130 Spectre gunships, and Apache gunship helicopters, along with weapons such as Patriot surface-to-air missiles, AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, and Maverick and Hellfire precision-guided air-to-ground missiles. They license-build F-16 fighters right in Turkey; they have as many F-16 squadrons available for action as we did in Desert Storm, and they’ll all be fighting right from home. And I wouldn’t discount their air defenses so easily: they can move their Patriots and Rapiers to oppose any action from us very easily.”

Vice President Phoenix thought for a moment, and then nodded to both men. “You both make convincing arguments,” he said, “but I’m inclined to agree with Colonel Wilhelm.” Phoenix eyed Patrick warily, as if waiting for an argument, but Patrick kept silent. “I find it very hard to believe that—”

At that moment a phone buzzed, and it was as if a Klaxon had gone off—everyone knew that no phone calls would have been allowed during this briefing unless it was extremely urgent. Weatherly picked up the phone…and moments later, his expression made everyone in the room take notice.

Weatherly went over to a computer monitor nearby, read a dispatch silently with a quivering lip, then said, “Top-priority message from division, sir. The State Department has notified us that the president of Turkey may announce a state of emergency.”

“Crap, I was afraid something like that might happen,” Phoenix said. “We may not get a chance to meet with the Turks to investigate the shelling. Colonel, I’ll need to speak with the White House.”

“I can set that up right away, sir.” Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who immediately got on the phone to the communications officer.

“I’ll get the briefings from the ambassador, the Iraqis, and the Turks, but my recommendation to the president will be to step up border monitoring.” The vice president turned to Patrick. “I still can’t believe Turkey would invade Iraq with three thousand U.S. troops in the way,” he said, “but obviously things are changing fast, and we’ll need to get some eyes up there. I assume that’s what your pregnant stealth bomber is for, General?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’d get it ready to go,” Phoenix said as Wilhelm motioned to him that his link to the White House was ready, “because I think we’ll need it…soon. Very soon.” Weatherly motioned for him that his communications setup was ready, and he and the vice president departed.

Patrick hung back with Wilhelm as everyone else filed out of the conference room. “So, what do you have in mind, General?” Wilhelm asked. “Plan on sending your pregnant stealth bomber up over Turkey this time instead of just over our sector? That’ll really calm everyone’s nerves around here.”

“I’m not going to send the Loser over Turkey, Colonel, but I’m not going to let the Turks relax, either,” Patrick said. “I want to see what the Turks have in mind if any aircraft strays too close to the border. We know they’ll hit back hard against any PKK land incursions. What will they do if it starts to look like the United States is poking around on their side of the border too much with aircraft?”

“Think that’s smart, McLanahan? That could ratchet up the tension around here even more.”

“We’ve got a lot of dead troopers in your hangar out there, Colonel,” Patrick reminded him. “I want to be sure the Turks know that we are very, very angry at them right now.”

“Contact, designating target bravo!” the MIM-104 Patriot tactical control officer shouted in Turkish. “I think it’s the same one that’s been popping in and out on us.” The Patriot AN/MPQ-53 radar system belonging to the Turkish army had identified an aircraft and displayed the target to the operators in the Patriot Engagement Control System. The tactical control officer quickly determined that the target was right on the border between Iraq and Turkey, but because it was not in contact with Turkish air traffic controllers and not transmitting any transponder beacon codes, it was considered in violation of the thirty-mile protected Turkish air defense buffer zone; it was too low to be on approach to any airfields in the region and was far off any established civil airways. “Sir, recommend designating target bravo as hostile.”

The tactical director checked the radar display—no doubt about it. “I concur,” he said. “Designate target bravo as hostile, broadcast warning messages on all civil and military emergency and air traffic control frequencies, and stand by to engage.” The tactical director picked up a secure telephone, linked by microwave directly to the sector air defense commander, Fourth Border Defense Regiment, in Diyarbakir. “Kamyan, Kamyan, this is Ustura, I have designated target bravo as hostile, standing by.”

“Ustura, is this the same pop-up target you’ve been watching for the past two hours?” the sector commander inquired.

“We think so, sir,” the tactical director said. “It’s almost certainly a UAV in a reconnaissance orbit, based on speed and flight path. We couldn’t get a firm altitude readout before, but it appears he’s climbed to a higher altitude to get a deeper look north.”

“Civilian traffic?”

“We’ve been broadcasting warning messages every time the target has popped up, and we’re broadcasting now on all civil and military emergency and air traffic control frequencies. No responses at all. Unless the pilot completely switched off his radios, it’s a hostile.”

“I concur,” the air defense commander said. He knew that some air defense sectors in busier areas used multicolored lasers to visually warn pilots away from restricted airspace, but he didn’t have that courtesy—nor did he really care to use it even if he had it. Any innocent pilot stupid enough to fly in this area during this breakout of hostilities deserved to get his ass shot down. “Stand by.” To his communications officer he ordered, “Get me Second Regiment at Nahla, and Ankara.”

“Second Regiment on the line, sir, Major Sabasti.”

That was quick, the sector commander thought—normally direct calls to the American Command and Control Center were filtered and redirected several times before connecting, and it took a few minutes. “Sabasti, this is Kamyan. We don’t show any American air missions in the buffer zone scheduled for tonight. Can you confirm an American flight along the border?”

“I’m looking at the sector map now, sir,” the liaison officer responded, “and the only aircraft in the buffer zone has been precoordinated with you, authorization number Kilo-Juliet-two-three-two-one, operating inside area Peynir.”

“We’re looking at a low-altitude aircraft that pops up and down out of radar coverage. It’s not an American or Iraqi aircraft?”

“I’m showing three American and one Iraqi reconnaissance plane airborne, sir, but only one is in the buffer zone.”

“What is it?”

“Its call sign is Guppy Two-Two, an American reconnaissance aircraft operated by private security contractors.” He read off the aircraft’s coordinates and location of its orbit box—it was exactly as earlier coordinated, inside the Peynir buffer zone but forty miles from the pop-up target.

“What kind of plane is it, Major?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you know I can’t tell you that. I have verified it with my own eyes and I know it’s an unarmed reconnaissance plane.”

“Well, Major, maybe you can tell me what it’s not,” the sector commander said.

“Sir…”

“Who the hell do you work for, Major—the Americans, or Turkey?”

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice interjected. “This is an American interpreter. I work for Mr. Kris Thompson, Thompson Security, Second Regiment, Allied Air Base Nahla, Iraq.”

“I know who the hell you are and where you are located,” the sector commander snapped. “Are you monitoring my radio messages?”

“Mr. Thompson says that the Status of Forces agreement between the United States, Iraq, and Turkey allows monitoring of routine and emergency radio traffic between military units party to the agreement,” the interpreter said. “He says you may verify this with your foreign ministry if necessary.”

“I am well aware of the agreement.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Thompson wants me to tell you that specific information regarding the systems involved in operations inside Iraq is not permitted to be revealed except in accordance with the Status of Forces agreement. The agreement allows an observer to view the aircraft that will be used and to monitor it throughout its mission, but he may not reveal any other details.”

“Thompson, I am about to shoot down an unidentified aircraft violating the Turkish airspace buffer zone,” the sector commander said. “I wanted to get more information to be sure I was not attacking an American or Iraqi aircraft. If you wish to play word games or shake the Status of Forces agreement in my face instead of assisting me in validating this target’s identity, so be it. Major Sabasti.”

“Sir!”

“Inform the Americans that we are tracking an unknown aircraft in the buffer zone and that we consider it hostile,” the sector commander said in Turkish. “I recommend to them that all allied aircraft and ground patrols stay well clear and the reconnaissance aircraft may want to vacate the patrol box.”

“I’ll pass the word along immediately, sir.”

“Very well.” The sector commander terminated the connection with an angry stab. “Is Ankara on the line yet?” he thundered.

“Standing by, sir.”

“This is Mat,” a voice responded. The sector commander knew that Mat, Turkish for “checkmate,” was the operations officer for the military chief of staff. “We are monitoring your radar contact, and the liaison officer at Nahla has messaged us saying that you contacted them for coordination and identification and they say it is not one of theirs. Recommendation?”

“Engage immediately, sir.”

“Stand by.” Those two damned dreaded words…but moments later: “We concur, Kamyan. Engage as directed. Out.”

“Kamyan copies, engaged as directed. Kamyan out.” The sector commander changed to his tactical channel: “Ustura, this is Kamyan, engage as directed.”

“Ustura copies, engage as directed. Ustura out.” The tactical director hung up the phone. “We’ve been ordered to engage as directed,” he announced. “Any change in target path or altitude? Any response to our broadcasts?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. Engage.”

“I copy ‘engage.’” The tactical control officer reached up, lifted a red-colored cover, and pressed a large red button, which activated a Klaxon throughout the four Patriot line batteries spread throughout southeastern Turkey. Each line battery consisted of four Patriot platoons, each with one Patriot Advanced Capability-3 (PAC-3) launcher with sixteen missiles, plus another sixteen missiles ready to load. “Engage.”

“I copy ‘engage,’” the Tactical Control Assistant repeated. He checked the target’s location with the battalion’s deployed Patriot batteries, picked the closest one to the hostile, and punched the communications button to that battery. “Ustura Two, Ustura Two, this is Ustura, operate, operate, operate.”

“Two copies ‘operate.’” There was a brief pause, and then the second firing battery’s status report changed from “standby” to “operate,” meaning the battery’s missiles were ready to fire. “Second Battery reports status is ‘operate,’ ready to engage.”

“Acknowledged.” The tactical control officer kept on mashing the warning horn as he watched his computer readouts. The attack was all controlled by computer from here on out—the humans could do nothing but shut it off if they desired. Moments later, the Engagement Control Computer reported that it had designated one of the platoons located west of the mountain town of Beytussebap to engage. “Fifth Platoon has been activated…missile one away.” Four seconds later: “Missile two away. Radar is active.”

Traveling at over three thousand miles per hour, the Patriot missiles needed less than six seconds to reach their prey. “Missile one direct hit, sir,” the Tactical Control Assistant reported. Moments later: “Missile two engaging a second target, sir!”

“A second target?”

“Yes, sir. Same altitude, rapidly decreasing airspeed…direct hit on second hostile, sir!”

“There were two aircraft out there?” the tactical director mused aloud. “Could they have been flying in formation?”

“Possible, sir,” the tactical control officer responded. “But why?”

The tactical director shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, but whatever they were, we got them. It could have been debris from the first hit.”

“It looked very large, sir, like a second aircraft.”

“Well, whatever it was, we got the merde nonetheless. Good work, everyone. Those two targets were south of the border but in the security buffer, yes?”

“Actually, sir, for a brief moment it was in Turkish airspace, no more than a few miles, but definitely north of the border.”

“A good kill, then.” The tactical director picked up another phone linked to the Jandarma headquarters in Diyarbakir, where someone would be responsible for organizing a search party for wreckage, casualties, and evidence. “Curuk, this is Ustura, we have engaged and destroyed a hostile aircraft. Transmitting target intercept coordinates now.”

“That sure didn’t take them long,” Jon Masters said. He was in the Tank’s observation room on the second floor, watching the engagement on his laptop. “Two minutes from when we changed the target altitude to shoot-down. That’s fast.”

“We might not have brought the false target down fast enough…they might have seen the target even after the first Patriot ‘hit,’” Patrick McLanahan said.

“I was trying to simulate debris by keeping the image up for another few seconds,” Jon said. “I slowed it way down.”

“Let’s hope they think they hit them both,” Patrick said. “Okay, so we know that the Turks moved their Patriots closer to the Iraqi border, and we know they mean business—they won’t hesitate to open fire, even on something as small as a Predator or Flight-Hawk.”

“Or a netrusion false target,” Jon Masters said happily. “We were easily able to hack into the Patriot system’s engagement control system and plant a UAV-size target into their system. As soon as we adjusted the false target’s altitude up high enough, they reacted as if it was a real hostile.”

“When they go out there and don’t find any debris, they’ll be curious and on guard next time,” Patrick said. “What else do we know from this engagement?”

“We also know that they can see and engage as close as one thousand feet aboveground,” Jon said. “That’s pretty good in fairly rough terrain. They may have modified the Patriot’s radar to give it a better de-clutter and low-altitude detection ability.”

“Let’s hope that’s all they’ve done,” Patrick said. He touched an intercom button: “Did you see the engagement, Colonel?”

“Affirmative,” Wilhelm replied. “So the Turks did move their Patriots west. I’ll notify division. But I still don’t think Turkey will invade Iraq. We should be passing them all the intel we have on PKK movements, reassure them that our troops and the Iraqis aren’t going to hit back, and let the crisis level cool down.”

The squad of eight Iraqi Kurd guerrilla fighters had used sniper team tactics—self-taught by reading books, using the Internet, and learning information passed down to them by veterans—to make their way to their target: crawling for dozens of miles sometimes inches at a time, never rising up past knee height for any reason; changing camouflage on their clothing every time the terrain changed; being careful to erase any signs of their presence as they dragged heavy packs and rocket-propelled grenade launcher tubes behind them.

One of the fighters, a former police officer from Irbil named Sadoon Salih, broke off a piece of a fig candy bar, tapped the boot of the person ahead of him, and held it out. “Last piece, Commander,” he whispered. The person made a “quiet” motion back at him—not with her left hand, but with a rakelike appliance attached to her wrist where a hand would normally be. Then the rake averted, open-handed, and the fighter dropped the candy into it. She nodded her thanks and kept moving.

They had brought food and water for only five days on this reconnaissance patrol, but with all the activity in the area she had decided to stay out. The food they brought ran out three days ago. They had cut back their daily rations to absurdly low levels and had begun subsisting on food they found in the field—berries, roots, and insects, with an occasional handout from a sympathetic farmer or herdsman they dared approach—and sipping stream water filtered through dirty kerchiefs.

But now she had discovered what all the military activity was about, and it was a lot more than just the Jandarma goon squads attacking Kurdish villages looking for revenge for the attack in Diyarbakir: the Turkish army was building these little fire bases in the countryside. Was Turkey bringing in the regular military to reinforce the Jandarma?

They had changed their reconnaissance patrol plan because of the spectacular double missile launches they had observed the night before. They were accustomed to seeing artillery and air bombardments from Turkey against Kurdish villages and PKK training camps, but these were no artillery rounds—they were guided high-performance missiles that were maneuvering while ascending, not in a ballistic flight path, and they exploded far up in the sky. The Turks had a new weapon in the field, and they obviously had something to do with all this base construction activity along the Turkey-Iraq border. It was up to her and her squads to check it out.

Along with water and concealment, the most important aid to the fighters was preservation of night vision. All of the fighters carried red-lensed goggles, and the closer they got to their objective the more they had to use them in order not to spoil their night vision, because the perimeter of their objective was illuminated by banks of outwardly aimed portable floodlights, which threw the encampment beyond into total darkness. It was an interesting tactic, thought the squad leader: the Turkish army certainly had night-vision technology, but they weren’t using it out here.

It could be a trap, but it was definitely an opportunity they couldn’t waste.

The squad leader, Zilar Azzawi, motioned for her shooters to move forward. As they spread out and began setting up, she scanned the perimeter with her binoculars. Set between each portable floodlight setup was a sandbag firing nest, separated from one another by about twenty yards. Seventy yards to her right was a truck entrance built of sandbags and lumber, blocked by a troop transport truck with the right side covered with a solid wall of green plywood panels, forming a simple movable gate. There was a single layer of thin five-foot high metal rolled fencing between the sandbag emplacements, held up by lightweight stakes. This was definitely not a permanent camp, at least not yet.

If they were going to take advantage, now was the time.

Azzawi waited until her team was ready, then pulled out a simple Korean-made hiker’s walkie-talkie and clicked the microphone button once, then clicked twice. A few moments later, she got two clicks in reply, followed by three clicks. She clicked her walkie-talkie three times, put it away, then touched the arm of the two men on either side of her with the silent “get ready” signal.

She lowered her head, closed her eyes, then spoke “Ma’lēsh—nothing matters,” in a low, quiet voice. She paused for a few more heartbeats, thinking of her dead husband and sons—and at that, the fury within her pushed the energy of a jet engine through her body, and she smoothly and easily stood up, raised her RPG-7 launcher, and fired at the sandbag gun mount across from her. As soon as her round hit, her other squad members opened up on other emplacements, and in seconds the entire section was wide open. At that moment the two other squads under Azzawi’s command on different sides of the base also opened fire with rocket-propelled grenades.

Now the lights that had prevented the attackers from seeing inside the base gave them an advantage, because they could see survivors and other Turkish soldiers preparing to repel the attack. Azzawi’s sniper teams started picking them off one by one, which forced the Turks to retreat farther back from the perimeter into the darkness of their camp. Azzawi threw her RPG launcher aside, retrieved her radio, and yelled, “Ala tūl! Move!” She picked up her AK-47 assault rifle, screamed, “IlHa’ūnī! Follow me!” and ran toward the base, firing from the hip.

There was no alternative but to dash across the illuminated no-man’s-land to the base—they were easy targets for anyone inside. But without her pack and RPG launcher, and with the surge of adrenaline mixed with fear coursing through her body, the fifty-yard run felt easy. But to her surprise, there was little resistance.

There were a few bodies in the destroyed gun nests, but she saw no signs of things like mine detonators, antitank weapons, or heavy machine guns or grenade launchers, just light infantry weapons. Apparently they hadn’t been expecting much trouble, or they hadn’t had time to set up properly. This notion was reinforced a few moments later when she found construction equipment, concrete, lumber for forms, and tools in piles nearby.

In less than five minutes of sporadic fighting, Azzawi’s three squads met up. All three had pushed forward with relative ease. She congratulated each of her fighters with handshakes and motherly touches, then said, “Casualty report.”

“We have one dead, three wounded,” the first squad leader said. “Seventeen prisoners, including an officer.” The other squad leader reported similarly.

“We have four wounded and eight prisoners,” Salih, Azzawi’s assistant squad leader, said. “What is this place, Commander? That was too easy.”

“First things first, Sadoon,” Azzawi said. “Set up perimeter guards in case their patrols come back.” Salih ran off. To the second squad leader, she said, “Bring the officer to me,” as she wrapped a scarf over her face.

The captive was a captain in the Turkish army. He was holding his left hand over a gaping wound on his right biceps, and blood was freely flowing. “Get a medical kit over here,” Azzawi ordered in Arabic. In Turkish, she asked, “Name, unit, and purpose here, Captain, and quickly.”

“You bastards nearly shot my damned arm off!” he shouted.

Azzawi raised her left arm, letting her hijab sleeve roll down to reveal her makeshift prosthetic. “I know exactly how it feels, Captain,” she said. “Look at what the Turkish air force did to me.” Even in the semidarkness, she could see the soldier’s eyes widen in surprise. “And this is far better than what you did to my husband and sons.”

“You…you are Baz!” the officer breathed. “The rumors are true…!”

Azzawi removed the scarf from her face, revealing her dirty but proud and beautiful features. “I said name, unit, and mission, Captain,” she said. She raised her rifle. “You must understand that I don’t have the desire or the ability to take prisoners, Captain, so I promise you I will kill you right here and now if you don’t answer me.” The officer lowered his head and started to shiver. “Last chance: name, unit, and mission.” She raised her weapon to her hip and clicked the safety switch off with a loud snap. “Very well. Peace be with you, Captain—”

“All right, all right!” the officer shouted. It was obvious he wasn’t a trained or experienced field officer—probably a desk jockey or lab rat pressed into service at the last minute. “My name is Ahmet Yakis, Twenty-third Communications Company, Delta Platoon. My mission was to set up communications, that’s all.”

“Communications?” If this was just a communications relay site, it might explain the lax security and ill-preparedness. “For what?”

Just then, Azzawi’s assistant squad leader, Sadoon Salih, ran up. “Commander, you have got to see this,” he said breathlessly. She ordered the prisoner to be bandaged up and secured, then ran off. She had to hop over a lot of cables strung throughout the camp, and she saw a large truck carrying what appeared to be a large steel container to which most of the cables were attached. They followed a bundle of cables up a slight rise to a large enclosure covered with camouflage netting.

Inside the enclosure, Azzawi found a large transport truck with a squat, square steel enclosure on the flatbed, along with two antenna masts lowered onto the deck of the truck and folded up in road-march configuration. “Well, here is the communications antennae the captain said he was setting up,” Azzawi said. “I guess he was telling the truth.”

“Not entirely, Commander,” Salih said. “I recognize this equipment because back home I guarded an American convoy of these things being set up to guard against an Iranian attack into Iraq. This is called an antenna mast group, which relays microwave command signals from a radar site to missile launch sites. That truck back there is a power generator…for a Patriot antiaircraft missile battery.”

“A Patriot missile battery?” Azzawi exclaimed.

“They must be the advance team setting up a base station for a Patriot missile battery,” Salih said. “They’ll bring in a huge flat-screen radar and a control station and be able to control several launchers spread out over miles. It’s all very portable; they can operate anywhere.”

“But why on God’s great earth are the Turks setting up an antiaircraft missile site out here?” Azzawi asked. “Unless the Kurdish government in Iraq somehow built itself an air force, who are they guarding against?”

“I don’t know,” Salih said. “But whoever it is, they must be flying over Turkish territory, and the Turks shot at them last night. I wonder who it was?”

“I don’t really care who they are—if they’re fighting Turks, that’s good enough for me,” Azzawi said. “Let’s take these vehicles back home. I don’t know what value they have, but they look brand-new, and maybe we can use them. At the very least, we won’t have to walk as far to get home. Good job tonight, Sadoon.”

“Thank you, Commander. It’s a pleasure to serve under such a strong leader. I’m sorry we didn’t do that much damage to the Turks, though…”

“Every little cut weakens them just a little bit more,” Zilar said. “We are few, but if we keep on inflicting these little cuts, eventually we’ll succeed.”

“The initial reports were true, sir,” General Orhan Sahin, secretary-general of the Turkish national security council said, running a hand through his dark sandy hair. “The PKK terrorists stole several components of a Patriot surface-to-air missile battery, specifically the antenna mast group, power generator, and cables.”

“Unbelievable, simply unbelievable,” President Kurzat Hirsiz muttered. He had assembled his national security council for an update on planning for the Iraq operation, but things seemed to be getting worse by the day and threatening to spin out of control. “What happened?”

“Early last night a PKK platoon, reportedly led by the terrorist commando mastermind they call the Hawk, attacked a Patriot headquarters emplacement that was being set up near the town of Beytussebap,” Sahin said. “The terrorists killed five, wounded twelve, and tied up the rest. All of our soldiers and technicians are accounted for—they took no prisoners, which means it was probably just a surveillance team or patrol, not a strike force. They made off with major Patriot missile battery components that were mounted on trucks for easy deployment, parts that allow the headquarters to communicate with remote launchers. Fortunately the headquarters vehicle itself and the missile transporter-launchers were not present.”

“Am I supposed to feel relieved about this?” Hirsiz shouted. “Where was security? How could this happen?”

“The base was not yet fully set up, so there was no perimeter fencing or barriers,” Sahin said. “There was only a token security force in place—the rest had been sent to help search for wreckage of the engagement that happened the previous night.”

“My God,” Hirsiz breathed. He turned to Prime Minister Akas. “We must do this, Ays¸e, and do it now,” he said to her. “We must accelerate the Iraq operation. I want to declare a state of national emergency. You must convince the Grand National Assembly to declare war on the Kurdistan Workers’ Party and all its affiliated groups throughout Turkey’s neighboring region and order a call-up of reserves.”

“That is craziness, Kurzat,” Akas said. “There is no reason for a state of emergency. Whoever leaked that rumor should be thrown in jail. And how can you declare war on an ethnic group? Is this Nazi Germany?”

“If you don’t want to participate, Prime Minister, you should resign,” Minister of National Defense Hasan Cizek said. “The rest of the cabinet is with the president. You stand in the way of getting this operation fully under way. We need the cooperation of the National Assembly and the Turkish people.”

“And I disagree with this plan, as do the legislators I have spoken with behind closed doors,” Akas said. “We are all disgusted and frustrated by the PKK attacks, but invading Iraq is not the way to solve the problem. And if anyone should resign, Minister, it is you. The PKK has infiltrated the Jandarma, stolen valuable weapons, and run roughshod over the entire country. I am not going to resign. I appear to be the only voice of reason here.”

“Reason?” Cizek cried. “You stand there and call for meetings and negotiations while Turks are slaughtered. Where’s the reason in that?” He turned to Hirsiz. “We’re wasting time here, sir,” he growled. “She will never comply. I told you, she’s a brainless ideological idiot. She’d rather stonewall than do the right thing to save the republic.”

“How dare you, Cizek?” Akas shouted, stunned by his words. “I am the prime minister of Turkey!”

“Listen to me, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “I can’t do this without you. We’ve been in Ankara together for too many years, in the National Assembly and in Çancaya. Our country is under siege. We can’t just talk any longer.”

“I promise you, Mr. President, I will do everything in my power to make the world realize that we need help to stop the PKK,” Akas said. “Don’t let your hatred and frustration lead you to bad decisions or rash actions.” She stepped closer to Hirsiz. “The republic is counting on us, Kurzat.”

Hirsiz looked like a man who had been beaten and tortured for days. He nodded. “You’re right, Ays¸e,” he said. “The republic is counting on us.” He turned to the military chief of staff, General Abdullah Guzlev: “Do it, General.”

“Yes, sir,” Guzlev said, and he went to the president’s desk and picked up a phone.

“Do what, Kurzat?” Akas asked.

“I’m accelerating the deployment of the armed forces,” Hirsiz said. “We’ll be ready to begin the operation in a few days.”

“You cannot begin a military offensive without a declaration of war by the National Assembly,” Akas said. “I assure you, we don’t have the votes yet. Give me more time. I’m sure I can convince—”

“We won’t need the votes, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said, “because I’m instituting a state of emergency and dissolving the National Assembly.”

Akas’s eyes bugged out in complete shock. “You’re what…?”

“We have no choice, Ays¸e.”

“We? You mean, your military advisers? General Ozek? They’re your advisers now?”

“The situation demands action, Ays¸e, not talk,” Hirsiz said. “I was hoping you’d help us, but I’m prepared to take action without you.”

“Don’t do it, Kurzat,” Akas said. “I know the situation is grave, but don’t make any rash decisions. Let me gather support from the Americans and the United Nations. They are sympathetic to us. The American vice president will listen. But if you do this, we’ll lose all support from everyone.”

“I’m sorry, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “It’s done. You may inform the National Assembly and Supreme Court if you wish, or I will.”

“No, it’s my responsibility,” Akas said. “I will tell them of the agony you are experiencing at the loss of so many citizens of Turkey at the hands of the PKK.”

“Thank you.”

“I will also tell them that your anger and frustration has turned you insane and blood-drunk,” Akas said. “I will tell them that your military advisers are telling you exactly what they want you to hear instead of what you need to hear. I will tell them that you’re not yourself right now.”

“Don’t do that, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “That would be disloyal, to me and to Turkey. I’m doing this because it needs to be done, and it is my responsibility.”

“Isn’t that what they say is the beginning of madness, Kurzat: to insist that you have responsibilities?” Akas asked. “Is that what all dictators and strongmen say? Is that what Evren said in 1980 or Tagmaç said before him, when they dissolved the National Assembly and took over the government in a military coup? Go to hell.”