Shadow Command

CHAPTER SEVEN

“McLanahan here, secure.”

“McLanahan, this is the President of the United States,” Joseph Gardner thundered. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Sir, I—”

“This is a direct order, McLanahan: Turn those bombers around right now.”

“Sir, I’d like to give you my report before—”

“You’re not going to do a damned thing except what I order you to do!” the President snapped. “You’ve violated a direct order from the commander-in-chief. If you want to avoid life in prison, you’d better do what I tell you. And that spaceplane had better still be in orbit, or by God I’ll—”

“The Russians shot down the Black Stallion spaceplane,” Patrick quickly interjected. “The spaceplane is missing and presumed lost with all souls.”

The President was silent for a long moment; then: “How?”

“A mobile laser, the same one that we think shot down our spaceplane last year over Iran,” Patrick replied. “That was what the Russians were hiding at Soltanabad: their mobile anti-spacecraft laser. They brought it into Iran and set it up at an abandoned Revolutionary Guards Corps base, one we thought had been destroyed — they even placed fake bomb craters on it to fool us. The Russians set up the laser in a perfect spot to attack our spacecraft overflying Iran. They got the second-biggest prize of them all: another Black Stallion spaceplane. The positioning suggests their real target was Armstrong Space Station.”

Again, silence on the other end of the line…but not for long: “McLanahan, I’m very sorry about your men…”

“There were two women on board too, sir.”

“…and we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” the President went on, “but you violated my orders and launched those bombers without permission. Turn them around immediately.”

Patrick glanced up at the time remaining: seven-plus minutes. Could he stall the President that long…? “Sir, I had permission to launch the spaceplane into standard orbit from STRATCOM,” he said. “We suspected what the Russians were up to, but we were awaiting permission to go in. Our worst fears were confirmed…”

“I gave you an order, McLanahan.”

“Sir, the Russians are packing up and moving the laser and their radar out of Soltanabad as we speak,” he said. “If they are allowed to slip away, that laser will be an immense threat to every spacecraft, satellite, and aircraft in our inventory. We’re just a few minutes away from launch, and it’ll be over in less than a minute. Just four precision-guided missiles with kinetic-kill warheads — no collateral damage. It’ll take out the components that haven’t been moved yet. The Russians can’t complain about the attack because then they’d be admitting moving attack troops into Iran to kill Americans, so there won’t be any international backlash. If we can get Buzhazi’s troops in there to start a forensic search as soon as possible after the attack, we might uncover evidence that—”

“I said, turn those bombers around, McLanahan,” the President said. “That’s an order. I’m not going to repeat myself. This conversation is being recorded and witnessed and if you don’t comply it’ll be used against you in your court-martial.”

“Sir, I understand, but I ask you to reconsider,” Patrick pleaded. “Five astronauts aboard the spaceplane were killed. They’re dead, blasted apart by that laser. It was an act of war. If we don’t get direct evidence that Russia has commenced direct offensive military action against the United States of America, they’ll get away with murder and we’ll never be able to avenge their deaths. And if we don’t destroy, damage, or disable that laser, it’ll pop up somewhere else and kill again. Sir, we must—”

“You are in violation of a direct order from the commander-in-chief, General McLanahan,” the President interrupted. “I’ll give you one last chance to comply. Do it, and I’ll let you retire quickly and quietly without a public trial. Refuse, and I’ll strip you of your rank and throw you in prison at hard labor for life. Do you understand me, General? One last chance…which is it going to—?”

Six minutes left. Could he get away with the “scratchy radio” routine? He decided he was far, far beyond that point now: he had no choice. Patrick cut off the transmission. Ignoring the stunned expressions of the technicians around him, he spoke: “McLanahan to Luger.”

“Just got off the phone with the SECDEF, Muck,” Dave said from Elliott Air Force Base via their subcutaneous global transceiver system. “He ordered the Vampires recalled immediately.”

“My phone call trumps yours, buddy: I just heard from the President,” Patrick said. “He ordered the same thing. He offered me a nice quiet retirement or a lifetime breaking big rocks into little ones at Leavenworth.”

“I’ll get them turned—”

“Negative…they continue,” Patrick said. “Bomb the crap out of that base.”

“Muck, I know what you’re thinking,” Dave Luger said, “but it might already be too late. The latest satellite image shows at least a fourth of the vehicles already gone, and that was over ten minutes ago. Plus we’re already past bingo fuel on the Vampires and well into an emergency fuel situation — they might not reach the tanker before they flame out. It’s a no-win scenario, Muck. It’s not worth risking your career and your freedom. We lost this one. Let’s pull back and get ready to fight the next one.”

“The ‘next one’ could be an attack against another spaceplane, a satellite, a reconnaissance aircraft over Iran, or Armstrong Space Station itself,” Patrick said. “We’ve got to stop it, now.”

“It’s too late,” Luger insisted. “I think we’ve missed it.”

“Then we’ll leave ’em with a little calling card in their rearview mirrors, if that’s the best we can do,” Patrick said. “Nail it.”

“He’s going to what?”

“You heard me, Leonid,” the President of the United States said on the “hot line” from Air Force One, just minutes after the connection was broken to the space station — he had to let loose a string of epithets for a full sixty seconds after the line went dead before he could speak with anyone else. “I think McLanahan is going to launch an air strike on a place called Soltanabad in northeastern Iran. He insists you have set up a mobile anti-spacecraft laser there and you used it to shoot down his Black Stallion spaceplane just a few moments ago.”

Russian president Leonid Zevitin furiously typed instructions on a computer keyboard to Russian air forces chief of staff Darzov while he spoke, warning him of the impending attack and ordering him to get fighters airborne to try to stop the American bombers. “This is unbelievable, Joe, simply unbelievable,” he said in his most convincing, sincere, outraged tone of voice. “Soltanabad? In Iran? I’ve never heard of the place! We don’t have any troops anywhere in Iran except the ones guarding our temporary embassy in Mashhad, and it’s there because our embassy in Tehran has been blasted to hell and Mashhad is the only secure place in the entire country right now, thanks to Buzhazi.”

“I’m just as flabbergasted as you are, Leonid,” Gardner said. “McLanahan must have flipped. He must’ve suffered some kind of brain injury when he had that heart flutter episode. He’s unstable!”

“But why does an unstable officer have control of supersonic bombers and hypersonic missiles, Joe? Maybe you can’t get your hands on McLanahan, but you can shut down his operation, can’t you?”

“Of course I can, Leonid. It’s being done as we speak. But those bombers may get off a few missiles. If you have any forces on the ground out there, I suggest you get them out pronto.”

“I thank you for the call, Joe, but we don’t have forces in Iran, period.” Still no reply from Darzov, he noticed — damn, he’d better get that laser out of there, or else their game was going to be over. “And we certainly don’t have some kind of magic super-laser that can shoot down a spacecraft orbiting Earth at seventeen thousand miles per hour and can then disappear like smoke. The United Nations investigated those reports last year and came up with nothing, remember?”

“I believe they said there were inconclusive results because—”

“Because President Martindale didn’t allowed them to interview anyone at Dreamland, and Buzhazi and his insane rebel insurgents didn’t allow them access to debris or the suspected site where the laser was supposedly set up,” Zevitin said. “The bottom line is that there is not one scrap of evidence out there pointing to some damned super-laser. McLanahan is obviously whipping up a lot of fear in Congress, in the media, and with the American public in order to keep his expensive and dangerous secret programs afloat.”

“Well, that’s going to be put to a halt real quick,” Gardner said. “McLanahan is finished. The bastard hung up on me and ordered that attack to continue.”

“Hung up on you?” That was perfect, Zevitin thought happily. Not only was McLanahan going to be removed, but he was going to be portrayed as a lunatic…by his own commander-in-chief! No way his supporters in the military or Congress were going to support him now! He choked down his glee and went on in a low, ominous voice, “That is insane! Is he crazy? You can’t allow this to continue! This unstable, insubordinate man has got to be stopped, Joe. You’re making a lot of folks real scared out here. Wait until the Duma and the Cabinet hears about another hypersonic missile attack in Iran. They’re going to shit their pants.”

“Convince them not to worry, Leonid,” Gardner said. “McLanahan is done for, and so is his private military force.”

“Shut it down, Joe,” Zevitin urged. “Shut it all down — the space station, those hypersonic missiles, the unmanned bombers with their EMP death rays — before it’s too late. Then let’s get together and present the world with a unified, peaceful, cooperative front. That’s the only way we’re going to ratchet down the tension around here.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Gardner insisted. “In case your Caspian Sea ships are in the vicinity, you might tell them that the bombers might launch high-speed missiles.”

“Joe, I’m concerned about the backlash in Iran if those missiles hit that area,” Zevitin said. “The last I recall, that base was being used by the Red Crescent to fly in relief supplies, and by United Nations monitors—”

“Oh no,” Gardner moaned. “This is a damned nightmare.”

“If McLanahan blasts that base, he’ll be killing dozens, perhaps hundreds of innocent civilians.”

“Damn,” Gardner said. “Well, I’m sorry, Leonid, but McLanahan’s out of control for the time being. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“I have one radical suggestion, my friend — I hope you don’t think I’m crazy,” Zevitin said.

“What’s your—?” And then Gardner stopped, because he soon figured it out for himself. “You mean, you’re asking my permission to—?”

“It’s the only way, Joe,” Zevitin said, almost unable to contain his amazement at the direction this conversation was taking. “You know it, and I know it. I don’t believe even a stressed-out schizoid like McLanahan would ever dare launch missiles against a humanitarian relief airfield, but I can’t think of any other way to stop this madness, can you?” There was no response, so Zevitin quickly went on: “Besides, Joe, the bombers are unmanned, correct? No one will get hurt on your side, and we’ll be saving many lives.” There was a very long pause. Zevitin added, “I’m sorry, Joe, I shouldn’t have brought up such a crazy idea. Forget I said—”

“Hold on, Leonid,” Gardner interrupted. A few moments later: “Do you have jets nearby, Leonid?” he heard the President of the United States ask.

Zevitin almost doubled over with disbelief. He swallowed his shock, quickly composed himself, then said, “I don’t know, Joe. I’ll have to ask my air force chief of staff. We normally patrol this area, of course, but since our MiG was shot down by McLanahan’s bomber with the EMP nuclear T-wave thing we’ve pulled back quite a bit.”

“I understand,” Gardner said. “Listen to me. My National Security Adviser tells me that the bombers launched from Batman Air Base in Turkey and are undoubtedly heading directly to a launch point over the southern Caspian Sea. We can’t tell you any more because we simply don’t know.”

“I understand,” Zevitin said. He could scarcely believe this — Gardner was actually telling him where the bombers had launched from and where they were going!

“We don’t know their weapons either, but we’ll assume they have the same hypersonic cruise missiles they used before, so the launch point is a couple hundred miles from Soltanabad.”

“I agree with your assumptions, Joe,” Zevitin said, trying to disguise the surprise in his voice and stay calm and serious. “We can search for them where you suggest. But if we do find them…Joe, should I proceed? I think it’s the only way to avoid a disaster. But it’s got to be your call, Mr. President. Tell me what you’d like me to do.”

Another pause, but this one shorter: “Yes, Leonid,” Gardner said, obviously racked with great anger. “I hate to do it, but that bastard McLanahan has left me no choice.”

“Yes, Joe, I understand and agree,” Zevitin said. “What about the T-wave weapon? Will they use it again to attack our fighters?”

“You must assume they will, and launch your attack from maximum range,” Gardner said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any control over that, either.”

“I know it’s not your doing, my friend,” Zevitin said as solemnly as he could muster through his glee. Hell, now the guy was giving him suggestions on how to successfully attack his own people! “We’ll do everything possible to avert a disaster. I’ll be in touch shortly with an update.”

“Thank you so much, my friend.”

“No, thank you for the responsible notification, my friend. I don’t know if I can be in time, but I’ll do everything I can to avoid an embarrassing situation from getting worse. Wish me luck. Goodbye.” Zevitin hung up the phone…then resisted the impulse to take a little victory dance around the desk. He snatched up the phone again and asked to be connected immediately to Darzov. “Status, General?”

“We are moving as fast as we can,” Darzov said. “We are prioritizing the main components first — the radar, laser chamber, and adaptive optics. The fuel tanks and power generators will have to wait.”

“Do you have any fighters on patrol over the Caspian, General?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Are you shadowing the American B-1 bombers?”

“I have an entire squadron of MiG-29s airborne to try to keep up with them,” Darzov said. “The unmanned Vampires are much faster than a regular B-1 Lancer, so we’ve loaded a few of the fighters up with Molnija missiles adapted to work at reduced range with the MiG-29’s fire control radar. They might be able to take down their hypersonic attack missiles if they can be fired—”

“I’ve just received permission from the President of the United States for you to shoot the bombers down,” Zevitin said happily.

“The President of the United States told us to shoot down his own bombers?”

“He doesn’t consider them his bombers — to him they’re McLanahan’s bombers now, and they might as well be invading Martians,” Zevitin said. “Do it. Shoot them down…but after they launch their missiles.”

“After?” Darzov asked incredulously. “Sir, if we cannot move our equipment out in time, or if they target the main Fanar components, we could lose billions of rubles of precious equipment!”

“Do the best you can, General,” Zevitin said, “but let those missiles launch and hit the base. You do have the screening implements in place, as we discussed earlier?”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Darzov replied. “But we also have—”

“If any part of Fanar gets hit, your first priority is to get it out of there while you continue to set the stage as planned,” Zevitin went on breathlessly, “because minutes after the missiles hit, I’m going to tell the whole world about it. The world media will want to see for themselves, and it’s important that they see it right away. Do you understand me, General?”

“Yes, sir,” Darzov replied. “I will do as you ask. But I hope we are not sacrificing our most important assets for mere public relations purposes.”

“You’ll do as I tell you for whatever reason I devise, General, whether you understand it or not,” Zevitin snapped. “Just make sure when the media descends on Soltanabad — which I am going to work very hard to see happen — they see nothing but senseless ruin and destruction, or I’ll have your ass. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, we’re picking up a locator beacon signal!” Master Sergeant Lukas shouted from her station in the command module of Armstrong Space Station. “It’s from the passenger module.”

“My God, they made it,” Patrick said breathlessly. “Any data yet?”

“Nothing yet…yes, sir, yes, we’re receiving location and environmental readouts!” Lukas said. “It’s intact! Stabilizers have deployed and it is under computer guidance! Telemetry says the passenger module is still pressurized!”

“Good God, it’s a miracle,” Patrick said. “Moulain and Terranova must have ejected the module just before the Black Stallion was destroyed. Rebecca—”

“We’re readying two more Vampires for launch to provide air cover for the recovery,” Rebecca Furness said. “They’ll be airborne in twenty minutes.”

“Dave—”

“We’re talking to Special Operations Command right now about launching a CSAR mission from Afghanistan, Muck,” Dave Luger said. “As soon as we know where they might come down, they’ll launch. We’re hoping they’ll land in western Afghanistan. A Pave Hawk is standing by at Herat Air Base. We’re trying to get a couple Predators and Reapers retasked to fly over the area.” The MQ-1 Predator and MQ-9 Reaper were unmanned reconnaissance aircraft, each configured to carry air-to-surface attack missiles; both were controlled via satellite from control stations in the United States.

“Sixty seconds to the launch point,” Dave Luger reported. “Airspeed coming back to one point two Mach.” He was by himself at the command console in the Batman, but he still lowered his voice as if not wanting anyone else to hear as he went on: “Muck, now would be a good time to turn them around.”

“Continue,” Patrick McLanahan responded.

He sounded every bit as resolute and confident as when he first made the decision to attack — that, at least, made him feel a little better. If Patrick showed the slightest hesitation in his decision, Dave vowed he would’ve turned the bombers around on his own authority to make sure the planes made it back to the refueling control point — as well as to save Patrick’s career.

In seconds, it was going to be too late…

On the command-wide net he spoke, “Roger, Odin, copy, continue. Forty-five seconds. No threats, no surveillance radar. Airspeed steady at one point two Mach. Thirty seconds…twenty…ten, doors coming open on Headbanger Two-One…missile one away…doors coming open on Two-Two…missile two away, doors coming closed…missile one away from Two-Two…missile two away, doors coming closed, the flight is secure, heading westbound to the ARIP.”

“How are the Vampires doing on fuel, Dave?” Patrick asked.

“We’ll make it — barely,” Luger responded. “If the hookups go smoothly, Two-One will be able to get on the boom, take on emergency fuel, cycle off, and Two-Two will start to take on fuel with ten minutes left to dry tanks.”

“Good going, Headbanger,” Patrick breathed with audible relief. No reply from Rebecca Furness — this was not over, not by a long shot, and he knew she was still angry about her decision being overruled.

“Thirty seconds to impact…SkySTREAK speed Mach ten point seven, all in the green…scramjet motor burnout, warhead coasting…flight controls active and responding, steering control good…twenty TG, datalink active.” They all watched as the composite millimeter-wave radar and imaging infrared picture flared to life, revealing Russian transport planes and helicopters on the runway, several lines of men handing boxes and packages from various parts of the base to waiting trucks, several large unidentifiable buildings on trailers…

…and several large tents with clearly identifiable Red Cross and Red Crescent logos on the tops. “Jesus!” Dave Luger gasped. “They look like relief worker tents!”

“Target the large trailers and portable buildings!” Patrick shouted. “Stay away from those tents!”

“We got it, Odin,” Rebecca said. She had commander’s override authority and could take over targeting from the weapons officer, but she didn’t need to — the weapons officer smoothly centered the aiming reticle over the four largest trailers. The SkySTREAK’s millimeter-wave radar was able to look through the outer steel shell of each truck, and it verified that the trailers under the aiming reticle were indeed dense and not hollow or less densely packed, like a partially empty cargo trailer might be. Otherwise, the trailers all looked the same and were being attended to by equivalent-looking numbers of workers.

“Five seconds…targeting locked…breakapart charge initiated.” The final image from the SkySTREAK missiles showed nearly direct hits on the center of each trailer…all except one, which had skittered off-target to land in a clear area somewhere beside the targeted trailer. The computer’s estimate of the area of damage, approximately fifty feet in diameter, showed nothing except some soldiers carrying rifles and boxes and perhaps one lone individual standing nearby, probably a supervisor — it didn’t hit any of the relief tents. “Looks like one missed, but it hit in a clearing beside the trailer.”

“Good shooting, Headbanger,” Patrick said. “Those trailers looked identical to the ones that attacked Stud One-One.”

“They looked like a billion other trailers around the world — there’s no way of knowing what we got, sir,” Rebecca Furness said, the exasperation obvious in her voice. “We didn’t see any radar arrays or anything that looked like laser fuel storage tanks or laser optics. We could’ve hit anything…or nothing.”

“Our first priority is to set up a rescue and recovery operation for the passenger module and a search for any debris and remains of the Black Stallion and its crew,” Patrick said, ignoring Furness’s exasperated remarks. “I want a Battle Force team sent out immediately to Afghanistan, along with every support aircraft we have available. I want unmanned vehicles and NIRTSats set up for immediate deployment to search along all possible trajectories for survivors or debris. Recall every asset we have for the search. I want a progress update in one hour. Do you copy, Headbanger?”

“Stand by, Odin,” Rebecca responded, concern thick in her voice. Patrick immediately turned his attention back to the mission status monitors…and immediately saw the new threat: a swarm of missiles barreling down on the Vampire bombers. “We did a post-turn long-range LADAR sweep and spotted them,” she said. The LADAR, or laser radar, was a system of electronically agile laser emitters embedded throughout the fuselage of the Vampire bombers that instantaneously “drew” a high-resolution image of everything around the plane for a hundred miles, then compared the three-dimensional picture to a catalog of images for immediate identification. “Look at the speed of those things — they have to be traveling at greater than Mach seven!”

“Countermeasures!” Dave Luger shouted. “Knock them out of the sky!”

But it was soon clear that it was too late. Traveling at more than fourteen miles per second, the Russian missiles ate up the distance long before the Vampire bombers’ microwave emitters could activate, lock on, and disrupt their guidance systems. Three of the four hypersonic missiles scored direct hits, quickly sending both bombers spiraling into the Caspian Sea.

“Damn it,” Dave swore. “Looks like the Russians have a new toy for their MiGs. Well, I guess we won’t have to worry if the bombers will make their tanker, will we, Rebecca?”

“We just lost one-fourth of our remaining B-1 bomber inventory, Dave,” Rebecca Furness radioed from Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. “It’s not a laughing matter. We only have two Vampires at Batman now.”

“Get ’em airborne to provide air cover for the CSAR guys out of Herat, Rebecca,” Patrick ordered. “Use active LADAR to scan for intruders. If anyone comes within a hundred miles of your planes, fry ’em.”

“With pleasure, Muck,” Rebecca said. “I’m ready for a little payback. They’ll be ready to taxi in about fifteen.” But just a few minutes later she called back: “Odin, this is Headbanger, we have a problem. Security Forces are parked in front of the hangar and preventing the Vampire from taxiing. They’re ordering us to shut down or they’ll disable the plane.”

Patrick was on the secure videoconference line in a heartbeat, but he was beaten to the punch by an incoming call: “General McLanahan, you are either deranged or suffering from some sort of mental breakdown,” Secretary of Defense Miller Turner said. “This is an order directly from the commander-in-chief: stand down all your forces immediately. You are relieved of command. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, one of my Black Stallion spaceplanes has been shot down by a Russian anti-satellite laser based in eastern Iran,” Patrick said. “We have indications that the passengers may have survived. I want air cover…”

“General, I’m sympathetic, but the President is pissed and he’s not listening to any arguments,” Turner said. “You hung up on him, for God’s sake! Do you expect him to listen to you now?”

“Sir, the passenger module is intact, and it’ll be on the ground in less than fifteen minutes,” Patrick said.

“What? You mean, someone ejected from the spaceplane…?”

“The passenger module is jettisonable and is designed to act as a lifeboat for the space station crewmembers,” Patrick explained. “It can withstand re-entry, fly itself to a landing spot, safely glide in for a landing, and save the crew. The module is intact, sir, and we’re hoping the crew is safe. We’re zeroing in on the possible landing zone right now, and as soon as we compute the exact landing spot we can deploy a rescue team there right away — that’s the only advantage we’ll have over the enemy. But it’ll take at least ninety minutes for a rescue team and air cover to arrive in the recovery area. We have to launch right away.”

“General, you have already disobeyed direct orders from the President,” Turner said. “You’re already on your way to prison, do you understand that? Don’t compound it by arguing anymore. For the last time: Stand down. I’m directing General Backman to take command of all of your forces. I’m telling you—”

“And I’m telling you, sir,” Patrick interrupted, “that most of the Middle East and central Asia will have seen the Black Stallion fall to Earth, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps, the al-Quds forces, all of the terrorists that have flooded into Iran since the military coup, and probably the Russians will be on their way to the crash site to retrieve whatever they can find. We must get every aircraft and combat search and rescue team possible airborne to find the survivors before the enemy does.”

“Central Command will coordinate that, McLanahan, not you. You are ordered to stand down. Take no further actions whatsoever. You will do or say nothing to anyone. You are relieved of your command and will be placed under arrest as soon as you can be brought off that station.”

For the second time that day, Patrick hung up on a civilian military leader. His next call was directly to General Kenneth Lepers, the four-star Army general in charge of U.S. Central Command, the major combat command overseeing all military operations in the Middle East and central Asia, to try to convince him to allow the bombers to take off.

“General McLanahan, your ass is in a really big sling right now,” Lepers’ deputy said. “The general has been directed not to speak with you, and this call will be reported to SECDEF. I advise you to straighten this thing out with SECDEF before the whole world cuts you off.” And he hung up.

Patrick’s next call was back to Rebecca Furness at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base. “I was just going to call you, sir,” Rebecca said. “I’m sorry about the Black Stallion. I wish we could’ve done more.”

“Thanks, Rebecca. I’m sorry about your Vampires.”

“Not your fault, sir.” It was, she reminded herself: if he hadn’t ordered to launch on this unauthorized mission, she’d still have her bombers. But the Vampires were unmanned, and the Black Stallion wasn’t, so she didn’t feel the need to rub salt on a wound. “We should have been scanning for bandits — I made the call to go in completely silent. I don’t know how the Russians knew we were coming or when, but they are going to get it back in spades, I guarantee that.”

“Are you still being stopped by the sky cops?”

“Affirmative. We’ve shut down as ordered and are holding our position inside the hangar.”

Patrick thought for a moment; then: “Rebecca, I tried calling General Lepers at CENTCOM to get his permission to launch the Vampires, and he’s not talking to me. I would guess if I tried to call STRATCOM I’d get the same response.”

“Cannon’s an okay guy,” Rebecca commented. “The others think you’re gunning for their jobs.” Or nuts, she silently added.

“If we don’t launch some air cover, our guys and maybe the CSAR troops will get chewed apart by the Pasdaran,” Patrick said. “I’m going to clear those Security Forces away from the hangar. I want you ready to launch as soon as they’re away.”

“But you said Lepers won’t talk to you, and you haven’t spoken to CENTAF yet, so who’s going to—?” Furness paused for a moment, then said simply, “That’s crazy. Sir.”

“The question is, Rebecca: Will you launch?”

The pause was very, very long; just when Patrick was going to repeat himself, or was wondering if Furness was dialing SECDEF’s number on another line, she said, “Get ’em out of my ships’ way, General, and I’ll launch.”

“Thank you, General.” Patrick hung up the phone, then spoke, “Odin to Genesis.”

“Go ahead, Muck,” Dave Luger responded via their subcutaneous global transceiver.

“Move those security guys away from the bombers.”

“They’re moved, Muck. Out.” Luger turned to his command radio: “Saber, this is Genesis.”

“Saber copies, go ahead, Genesis,” Air Force First Lieutenant James “JD” Daniels, commander of the Battle Force ground operations team code-named “Saber,” responded. Daniels had been sent to Batman Air Base to provide security for the EB-1C Vampire bombers, but also because the base was an isolated, well-equipped place to train with new CID pilots in real-world scenarios. As a technical sergeant the thirty-year-old tall, brown-eyed, brown-haired rancher’s son from Arkansas was one of the first of the Battle Force commandos to check out as a Cybernetic Infantry Device pilot. After being injured from radiation sickness after fighting in Yakutsk Air Base in Russia following the American Holocaust, Daniels used his recovery time to get a bachelor’s degree, then attended Officer Training School and earned his commission. Now he was the senior training officer and, except for Charlie Turlock herself, the resident expert in the CID weapon system.

“I have a task for you, Saber, but you might not like it,” Dave Luger said. “Odin wants to launch the Vampire bombers.”

“Yes, sir. We were ready to go a moment ago, but the Security Forces guys showed up at the hangar, and the planes shut themselves down. The base commander ordered us to assist and protect the Security Forces from any remote-controlled actions by you regarding the aircraft. We verified the orders. Sorry, sir. What is it I won’t like?”

“One of our spaceplanes has been shot down in eastern Iran, and there are survivors. We need air cover for a rescue operation. The NCA still says no. We want to launch the Vampires anyway.”

“Why won’t the NCA approve the mission, sir?”

“I don’t know why, Saber, but we believe the NCA is worried that our actions over Iran are inciting fear and intimidating everyone in the region.”

“Sir, I received authenticated orders to stand down — us as well as the Vampires. The base commander ordered us to help secure you. You’re asking me to violate those orders.”

“I know, Saber. I can’t order you to violate valid orders. But I’m telling you that the survivors of the spaceplane will be caught and captured or killed if we don’t do something.”

“Who shot down the spaceplane, sir?”

“We believe the Russians did, Saber.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniels said. That was enough for him. Daniels had spent a year in the hospital recovering from radiation poisoning which occurred when the Russian air force used tactical nuclear weapons to destroy their own air base, Yakutsk, that was being used by McLanahan and the Air Battle Force to hunt down and destroy Russian mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles that were being readied to launch a second nuclear attack on the United States. He endured severe dehydration, nausea for days on end, incredible pain, and eventually a liver transplant — but he survived, won the right to go back on active duty, requalified for field operations, rejoined the Battle Force, and took command of a CID team.

He had won, then lost, then won back all the things he ever wanted to do in his life, except one: get some payback for what the Russians did to him, his comrades, and to their own people in Yakutsk.

“You still there, Saber?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders,” Daniels said in a deep monotone voice, quite different from his normally energetic, upbeat tone. “If those planes were to move, I and my team would do everything in our power to protect the Security Forces from harm. Good night, sir.”

“Genesis to Headbanger.”

“Go ahead, Dave,” Rebecca Furness replied.

“Get ready.”

“Can’t. My grounds crews say the sky cops are still blocking the hangar and taxiways.”

“Get ready anyway.”

“Did you order your guys to take out the sky cops?”

“No, ma’am, I did not. The base commander ordered the Battle Force team to assist and protect the Security Forces from unauthorized aircraft movement, and that’s what they will do.”

This is crazy, Rebecca told herself for the umpteenth time, utterly crazy. She turned to her operations officer, Brigadier General Daren Mace: “Daren, start ’em up and launch the Vampires immediately.” She closed her eyes and saw herself standing in front of a court-martial, being sentenced to prison for the rest of the best years of her life; then, thinking about her fellow airmen on the ground in Iran being chased by Pasdaran and Muslim insurgents, opened her eyes and said, “Stop for nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mace said. He adjusted the mike on his headset and spoke: “Headbanger, start ’em up and launch without delay. Stop for nothing. Repeat, stop for nothing.”

“Affirmative, Panther, the APUs are still on, both planes,” the Air Force Security Forces detail team leader reported to NATO base headquarters. It was creepy enough that the APU started and stopped by itself, but ten times more so when the engines did the same. The crew chiefs and assistants for each plane were outside the hangars, per the base commander’s orders.

“This is Panther. Put the fucking senior crew chief on,” the base commander, a Turkish army colonel, ordered in very good English.

“Stand by, Panther.” The SF officer handed his radio to the head crew chief, an Air Force technical sergeant. “It’s the base commander, and he’s steamed.”

“Tech Sergeant Booker here, sir.”

“I ordered those planes shut down, and I mean completely shut down — APUs also.”

“Yes, sir, I know, but you ordered us not to hook the ground power units up either, and without power the command center at Battle Mountain can’t talk to the planes, so I think that’s why the APUs are—”

“Sergeant, I am giving you a direct order: I want those planes completely shut down, immediately, or I will have you arrested!” the base commander screamed. “I do not care if no one can talk to the planes — I do not want anyone to talk to the planes! Now turn off those APUs, and do it now!”

“Yes, sir,” Booker said, and he handed the radio back to the SF officer.

“Detail One here, Panther.”

“I just ordered that tech sergeant to completely shut down those planes, including the APUs — the power units in the tail,” the base commander said. If they do not comply right away, place them all under arrest.” Mallory swallowed hard, then made a gesture to his team members, a sign that said “Get ready for action.” “Do you understand me, Detail One?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“What is that tech sergeant doing right now?”

“He’s going over to the other crew chiefs…he’s gesturing to the planes…they’re putting on gloves, like they’re getting ready to go to work.”

They were sure taking their sweet time, the Security Forces officer thought — the colonel’s going to have a shit fit if they don’t get their rears in gear. Sure enough, moments later the base commander called: “What are they doing, dammit? Are those planes shut down yet?”

“Negative, sir. They’re just standing there talking right now, sir,” Mallory replied. “One of them has a radio, and another one has a checklist. Maybe they’re discussing shutting down the APUs from here.”

“Well, go find out what is taking them so damned long.”

“Roger, Panther. Stand by.” He holstered his radio and started walking toward the crew chiefs. The three men and one woman crew chiefs saw him coming…and then, without a backward glance, they started walking toward their end unit hangar which served as the Air Battle Force’s headquarters. “Hey, you jerkoffs, get back here and shut those power units off, colonel’s orders.” Just as he was about to yell at them again, to his complete surprise, they started running toward the hangar! “Where the hell are you going?” he shouted. He pulled his radio out of its holster. “Panther, the crew chiefs are running away toward their headquarters building!”

“They are what?” the base commander shouted. “Arrest those sons of bitches!”

“Roger that, sir. Break. Detail One to Control, signal Alert Red, Alpha Seven ramp area, repeat, Alert Red, Alpha—” Then Mallory heard a sound, much louder than the APUs, and realized moments later what it was. His hand shaking, he raised his radio again: “Control, Detail One, be advised, the articles in the Alpha Seven hangars are starting engines, repeat, starting engines! Requesting a Code Niner-Niner alert, full response, repeat, full—”

And then he saw them, emerging from the hangar the crew chiefs had just run toward, sprinting like linebackers from hell…and he nearly fell over backward in shock, surprise, and a mad scramble to get the hell out of there. He had seen them before, of course, but usually just walking around or being folded or unfolded near a truck or helicopter — never running right at him!

“Saber Four and Five responding!” one of the Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots said in a loud computer-synthesized voice. “Say status!” Mallory was still on his hands and knees cowering in terror as the first robot ran right up to him. Both had him surrounded within moments. They were wearing huge backpacks, with what appeared to be grenade launchers deployed over their shoulders aimed right at him. “Team leader, I say again: say status!”

“I…uh…the bombers…they’ve started engines!” Mallory stammered. The muzzle of the grenade launcher was just a few feet from his nose. “Get that weapon out of my face!”

The robot ignored the order. “Have they taxied yet?” the robot blared at him. Mallory couldn’t respond. “Five, report to Alpha-Seven-Two, I’ll take Alpha-Seven-One. Protect the Security Force units.” The second robot nodded and ran off, just like a football player breaking from a huddle except it was gone literally in the blink of an eye. “Are you hurt, Team Leader?”

“I…no,” Mallory said. He scrambled to his feet. “Get in those hangars and find some way to disable those—”

At that instant they heard an impossibly loud roar of aircraft engines and a tremendous blast of jet exhaust from the open rear of both occupied shelters. “The bombers are taxiing!” the robot said. “Five, bombers are moving! Protect the Security Force units!”

“No! Stop the bombers! Find some way to—!” But the robot had sped off toward the hangar entrance. Well, he thought, the bombers weren’t going anywhere, and if for some reason the Humvees didn’t stop them, the robots certainly could. “Detail One units, the CID units are headed inside the hangars. Assist them if possible, but monitor and report if—”

At that instant, Mallory saw an object fly out of the near hangar. At first he thought it was a cloud of smoke or perhaps an explosion of some kind…and then seconds later realized it was the Humvee that had been stationed inside blocking the hangar! Moments later the robot ran out of the hangar clutching a Security Forces officer in each hand, carrying him out as easily as someone might carry a beach towel. Directly behind him, the B-1 bomber careened out of the hangar and sped up the throat toward the main taxiway.

“What in hell is going on?” Mallory shouted. “What happened? What are you…?” But the robot kept coming. It scooped up the Security Forces team leader with a bone-jarring tackle and ran him a hundred yards away in the blink of an eye, finally depositing the three stunned officers in a heap near the security fence surrounding the detachment area. The robot huddled over them as if shielding them from something. “What the hell are you doing? Get off me!”

“The bomber is transmitting its microwave weapon system,” the robot said. “I had to get the Humvee out of the hangar before it exploded, and then I evacuated you. At close range the MPW can be lethal, and I had to get away or else it could have disabled my electronics too.”

“What are you talking about?” Mallory struggled to get a better look. “The second bomber is moving too! They’re taxiing for takeoff!” He fumbled for his radio, realizing he’d dropped it when the robot tackled him. “Call security control!” he told the robot. “Alert the base commander! Get units on the taxiways and runways before those things can get into takeoff position!”

“Roger,” the robot responded. “I’ll call it in, then see what I can do to stop them.” And the robot stood up and was gone, running away with amazing speed, the muzzle of the grenade launcher swiveling back and forth searching for targets. It cleared the twelve-foot fence surrounding the detachment area — he just noticed that the gate across the throat was wide open — and was out of sight within seconds.

“What the fuck are those things doing? Who’s in control of those things — ten-year-olds?” Mallory ran back to the first hangar and found his radio. “Control, Detail One, the bombers are taxiing out. There are two CID units in pursuit. They said the bombers were transmitting some kind of microwave weapon.”

“Control, Knifepoint West, the bombers are crossing Taxiway Foxtrot on the way to Runway One-Niner,” another Security Force unit radioed. “I’m parking my vehicle in the middle of Taxiway Alpha at the intersection of Hotel taxiway. I’m going to dismount. Those fuckers are coming this way awfully damned fast!” Mallory and the other Security Forces officers ran up the throat to the main taxiway to see what was going on…

…and just as they reached Taxiway Alpha they saw a Humvee fly into the air to the north, and the B-1 bombers roar past it! “Knifepoint West, Knifepoint West, do you copy?” Mallory radioed as he watched the nearly five-thousand-pound Humvee hit and tumble across the ground like a child’s toy. “What happened? Say status!”

“Those robots threw my Humvee off the taxiway!” the officer radioed a few moments later. “They’re not trying to stop them — they’re helping them escape!”

“Those bastards!” Mallory swore. “I knew something screwy was going on! Control, Detail One, those robots are engaging our security units!”

“Detail One, this is Panther,” the base commander cut in. “I do not care what you have to do, but stop those bombers from leaving the ground! Do you read me? Stop those bombers! Then place that entire Headbanger contingent under arrest! I want some butts, and I want them now!”

But as he listened, Mallory saw the first unmanned B-1 bomber leave the ground and streak across the night sky, trailing four long afterburner flames behind it, followed just a few short seconds later by the second. “Ho-lee shit,” he cried aloud as the twin afterburner booms rolled over him. “What in hell is going on?”

It took almost a minute for the noise to subside enough so he could talk on the radio: “Control, Panther, Detail One, the bombers have launched, repeat, they’ve launched. All available patrol and response units, report to the Alpha Seven special detachment area with restraints and transport. Control, notify the base hospital and all command units that a special security enforcement operation has commenced.” His ears were buzzing and his head felt as if it was going to explode from the tension and sheer disbelief over what had just happened. “Notify all responding units that there are two of those CID robot units that assisted the bombers to launch and are armed and dangerous. Do not approach the CID units, only report and observe. Do you copy?”

The two bombers were just bright dots in the night sky, and soon those telltales winked out as the afterburners were cut off. This was unbelievable, Mallory told himself over and over again, simply unbelievable. Those Saber guys had to be nuts or on drugs, he thought, wiping sweat from his forehead. The robot guys had to be crazy…or maybe the robots had been hijacked by terrorists? Maybe they weren’t Air Force after all, but fucking Muslim terrorists, or maybe Kurdish terrorists, or maybe…?

And then he realized he wasn’t thinking all this, but screaming it at the top of his lungs! His skin felt as if it was going to burst into flames, and his head felt ready to explode! What in God’s name was happening? He turned…

…and then he saw the shape of one of the robots, about thirty yards away, slowly heading toward him. He raised his radio to his suddenly sweat-stained lips: “Control, Detail One, one of the CID units is heading toward me, and I am engaging,” he said, wiping yet another rivulet of sweat away from his eyes. “Request backup, Alpha Seven and Taxiway Alpha, get backup out here now.” He unholstered his sidearm, but he couldn’t summon enough strength to lift it. The burning sensation increased, completely disrupting his vision and creating an intense headache, the pain finally forcing him to his knees. “Control…Control, how do you copy?”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant Mallory, but no one is here to take your call right now,” he heard a strange voice say. “But don’t worry. You and your friends will wake up in a nice cozy cell, and you won’t have a care in the world.” The robot advanced toward him menacingly, the muzzle of the grenade launcher aimed right between his eyes…but then, just before his vision completely shut down in a cloud of stars, he saw the robot wave “bye-bye” to him with his huge armored but incredibly lifelike fingers. “Nightie-night, Sergeant Mallory,” he heard over the radio lying somewhere on the ground, and then everything went blank.

“Odin, Headbanger, Genesis, this is Saber, we have control of the base,” Lieutenant Daniels reported a few minutes later. “Those new microwave emitters built into the CID units worked great out to thirty yards or so.” The nonlethal microwave emitters broadcasted an intense feeling of heat, pain, disorientation, and eventually unconsciousness but did no actual injury to a human target. “The bombers are away and we’re securing the perimeter. The base commander is pretty sore at us but he opened up his hidden liquor cabinet so he’s not quite as verbal as before.”

“Roger that,” Patrick McLanahan responded from Armstrong Space Station. “Thank you, Saber.”

“Our pleasure, sir,” Daniels responded. “Maybe we can all share a cell in Leavenworth together.”

“Or Supermax, if we’re not so lucky,” Rebecca added.

“We received a coded locator beacon and status data dump from the Black Stallion’s passenger module,” Luger said. “It’s intact, its parachute and impact attenuation bags have deployed, and it’s coming down in eastern Iran, about a hundred and twenty miles northwest of Herat, Afghanistan.”

“Thank God.”

“No indications if anyone inside made it yet, but the module is intact and still pressurized. We’ve got an Army Special Forces team in Herat gearing up for a rescue mission.”

“The bombers will be in maximum SkySTREAK launch position in sixty minutes, and overhead in ninety — if they’re not jumped by Russian fighters again,” Rebecca Furness said. “We’ll be on the lookout for them this time.”

“That’s probably the same amount of time it’ll take the Special Forces team to chopper in — if they get permission to launch,” Luger added.

“I’ll speak to the commander myself,” Patrick said. “I don’t have much pull with the Army, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute — are you boys forgetting something?” Rebecca Furness interjected. “We just took over a Turkish-NATO military base by force and ignored direct orders from the commander-in-chief. You guys are acting as if that’s no big deal. They are going to come after us, all of us — even the general, even though he’s up on a space station — and they are going to haul us off to prison. What do you propose we do about this?”

“I propose we rescue our crewmembers on the ground in Iran, then hunt down any parts of that anti-spacecraft laser the Russians fired at us, General Furness,” Patrick said immediately. “Anything else is background noise at this point.”

“‘Background noise’? Do you call the Turkish and U.S. governments — possibly our own military — coming after us just ‘background noise’? We’ll be lucky if they just send in an infantry battalion to drag us out of here. Do you intend on continuing to disregard orders and take down anyone who gets in your way, General? Are we going to war against our own people now?”

“Rebecca, I’m not ordering you to do anything — I’m asking,” Patrick said. “We have crewmembers down in Iran, the Russians blasting away with a laser, and the President doing nothing about any of it except telling us to stand down. Now if you don’t want to help, just say so, recall the Vampires, and call the Pentagon.”

“And tell them what, Patrick — that you forced me to launch those planes? You’re two hundred miles up on the space station, probably on the other side of the planet. I’m already committed, General. I’m screwed. My career is over.”

“Rebecca, you did what you did because we have friends and fellow warriors on the ground in Iran, and we wanted to save and protect them if possible,” Patrick said. “You did it because you had the forces standing by and ready to respond. If we’d followed orders, the survivors would be captured, tortured, then killed — you know it, and I know it. You acted. That’s more than I can say for the Pentagon and our commander-in-chief. If we’re going to lose our freedom, I’d rather it be because we tried to make sure our fellow airmen kept theirs.”

Rebecca fell silent for a long moment, then shook her head ruefully. “I hate it when you’re right, General,” she said. “Maybe I can tell them that you threatened to blast me with Skybolt if I didn’t do as you ordered.”

“Maybe they’ll laugh so hard they’ll forget what we did.”

“We need a plan, General,” Rebecca said. “The Turks are going to send a force to retake Batman Air Base, and if they don’t there’s an entire U.S. airborne division in Germany that could be dropping on our heads within half a day. We’ve only got three CID units and four Tin Men at Batman, plus the security and maintenance troops. And we all know that Battle Mountain and probably Elliott will be next.”

“We should move the Air Battle Force units to Dreamland,” Patrick said. “We can hold that base a lot easier than Battle Mountain.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying, Patrick?” Rebecca asked incredulously. “You’re conspiring to organize and direct U.S. military forces against the orders of the commander-in-chief, illegally marshal them under your own command without any authority, and directly oppose and engage with American military forces. That’s sedition! That’s treason! You won’t go to prison, Patrick — you could be executed!”

“Thanks for the legal primer, Rebecca,” Patrick said. “I’m hoping it won’t come to this. After the survivors are rescued and the Russian anti-spacecraft laser is destroyed or at least discovered, all of this will be over. I understand if you don’t want to do as I suggest, Rebecca. But if you want to take the Air Battle Force and assist, you can’t stay at Battle Mountain. They could be rolling up outside to take you down as we speak.”

Everyone on the secure video teleconference could see the tortured expression on Rebecca Furness’s face. Out of all of them, she probably had the most to lose in this, and it was obvious she didn’t want this. But just a moment later, she nodded. “All right. In for a dime, in for a dollar — in for twenty to life. Maybe the court-martial will take pity on me because I’m a woman. I’ll get the planes moving right away, Dave. Make room for me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dave Luger responded from Elliott Air Force Base. Then: “What about the personnel and equipment at Batman Air Base, Muck? The Turks and our own guys could be waiting for them to return…if Turkey doesn’t try to shoot them down when they cross back into Turkish airspace.”

“I’ve got an idea for them, Dave,” Patrick said. “It’s going to be risky, but it’s our only chance…”

“Calm yourself, Excellency,” Leonid Zevitin said. He was in his private study with Foreign Minister Alexandra Hedrov, making phone calls and sending secure e-mails to military and diplomatic units around the world alerting them to the events unfolding over Iran. The phone call from Iranian supreme leader Hassan Mohtaz happened much later than expected, but that was undoubtedly because it was probably very hazardous for anyone to wake the guy up with bad news.

“Calm myself? We are under attack — and it is because of you!” Mohtaz cried. “I allowed you to put your weapons on my soil because you said it would protect my country. It has done just the opposite! Four bombs have destroyed one of my Revolutionary Guards Corps bases, and now my air defense forces tell me that American bombers are flitting freely across our skies!”

“There are no bombers over Iran, Excellency — we have seen to that,” Zevitin said. “As far as your base: remember that Russia paid to refurbish and disguise that base so we could use it temporarily, and we agreed that it would be turned over to you after we were done with it…”

“And now you are done with it because the Americans have destroyed it!” Mohtaz said. “Will you leave us a smoking hole in the ground now?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. President!”

“I want anti-aircraft weapons, and I want them now!” Mohtaz screamed. “You told me six units of the S-300 and another dozen Tor-M1 missile vehicles were waiting for pre-delivery checkout in Turkmenistan. How long ago was that, Zevitin? Eight, ten weeks? How long does it take to unpack a few missile launchers, turn them on, and see if all the pretty lights come on? When are you going to deliver on your promises?”

“They will be delivered, Mr. President, do not worry,” Zevitin said. He didn’t want to deliver missiles, especially the advanced S-300 strategic anti-aircraft and anti-ballistic missile system, until he was sure he could not get any more concessions from American President Joseph Gardner in exchange. Zevitin was perfectly willing to let Mohtaz rant and rave if he could get the Americans to agree not to put troops in Poland or the Czech Republic, or agree to veto any resolution in the United Nations that might allow Kosovo to break away from Serbia, in return. Those negotiations were in a critical stage, and he wasn’t going to let Mohtaz screw them up.

“I want them now, Zevitin, or you can take all of your planes and tanks and radars back to Russia!” Mohtaz said. “I want the S-300 and Tor protecting Mashhad tomorrow. I want an impenetrable shield of missiles around that city when I return in triumph with my exiled government.”

“That is impossible, Excellency. It takes time to test those advanced weapon systems properly before deployment. I will have Minister Ostenkov and chief of staff General Furzyenko brief your military advisers on—”

“No! No! No more briefings and wasted time!” Mohtaz shouted. “I want them deployed immediately or I will see to it that the entire world knows of your duplicity! What would your American friends say if they learn that you agreed to sell Iran anti-aircraft missiles, chemical weapons, and anti-personnel rockets?”

“You agreed not to share any information…”

“And you agreed to give me anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin,” Mohtaz interjected. “Break your promises further, and we are finished. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan for all I care.” And at that the connection was broken.

“Easy now, lass, you’re hurt. Don’t move, eh?”

Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes…and immediately what little vision she had was shattered in a cloud of stars as the pain shot through her lower back, up through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she cried aloud. She felt a cool hand hold her forehead. “My God, my God…!”

“Believe it or not, lass, you shouting in pain is music to me ears,” the man said, his thick Irish brogue slowly becoming clearer and soothing in a way, “because if you were’na cryin’ out so, I’d believe your spine was broken. Where does it hurt, lass?”

“My back…my lower back,” Charlie gasped. “It feels like…like my whole back is on fire.”

“On fire…that’s funny, lass,” the man said. “I’m na surprised.” Charlie looked at the man in confusion. She could see the stethoscope dangling around his neck now. He was very young, like an older teenager, with closely cut reddish-blond hair, bright green eyes, and an ever-present smile — but his eyes showed deep concern. The glare of a single overhead lightbulb hurt her eyes, but she was thankful that at least her eyes were working. “You might say you’re an angel from heaven…or maybe a fallen angel?”

“I don’t understand, Doctor…Doctor…”

“Miles. Miles McNulty,” the man replied. “I’m na a doctor, but everyone out here believes I am, and that’s good enough for all of us for now.”

Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she was starting to get accustomed to it, and found that it even subsided a bit if she moved just so. “Where are we, Mr. McNulty?” she asked.

“Och, c’mon, lass, you’re makin’ me feel old callin’ me by what they call me old man,” Miles said. “Call me Miles, or Wooz if you like.”

“Wooz?”

“Some of the docs gave me the nickname after I got here — I guess I’d get a little woozy seein’ some of the shit that goes on around here: the blood, the putrid water, the injuries, the infant deaths, the starvation, the damned evil that someone can do to another human bein’ in the name of God,” Miles said, his young features momentarily turning hard and gray.

Charlie chuckled. “Sorry.” She was pleased when his smile returned. “I’ll call you Miles. I’m Charlie.”

“Charlie? I know I’ve been here in the desert for a while, lass, but you na look like a ‘Charlie’ to me.”

“Long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”

“Love to hear it, Charlie.” He found a bottle in his jacket pocket and shook out some tablets. “Here. It’s just over-the-counter NSAIDs — all the pain medication I dare give you until I do some more tests to find out if you’re bleeding internally or if anything’s broken.”

A large armored hand reached out and completely surrounded the man’s hand — Charlie couldn’t turn her head, but she knew who it was. “I’ll have a look at those first,” he heard Chris Wohl’s electronically synthesized voice say.

“Ah, it speaks,” Miles said. He took his hand and the pills back. Wohl undid his helmet, exercising a kink out of his neck. “Pardon me for saying, bub, but ye looked better with the helmet on,” he quipped, smiling broadly until he saw Wohl’s warning glare. He put the tablets back into the bottle, shook it up, took one out, and popped it in his mouth. “I’m tryin’ to help the lady, na hurt her.” Wohl allowed him to give Charlie three tablets and a sip of water.

“How do you feel?” Wohl asked.

“Not bad if I don’t…move,” she said, gasping through a surge of pain. “I can’t believe we made it.” Wohl’s warning glance reminded her not to talk any more about what they had just experienced. “How long have we been here?”

“Not long,” Wohl responded. “About an hour.”

“Where’s Three?” Wohl motioned to Charlie’s left. Charlie’s mouth instantly turned dry. The pain forgotten, she followed the big Marine’s glance beside her…and she saw the other Tin Man, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table beside her as if laid out on a funeral bier. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“No, but he’s been unconscious awhile,” Wohl said.

“I asked your comrade here if there’s an on-off switch or latch or can opener to peel him open and check him out — I’m not even sure if it’s a ‘him’ or a machine.”

“We’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible,” Wohl said.

“I think I’d like to give the lass a look, if you don’t mind,” Miles said to Wohl. “Ten minutes to look you over first, eh?”

“Five minutes.”

“All right, all right.” He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. “I hate to do this while you’re hurting, lass, but it’ll help me isolate the injured areas. Ready?”

“I guess so.”

“There’s a game lass. I’m going to try not to move you too much myself, so try to move yourself along with me as much as you can — you’re the best judge about how much is too much, yes? We’ll start with the head and work our way down. Ready? Here we go.” With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it ever so carefully, stooping down with a flashlight as low as he could go to look behind her head and neck without her having to turn her head as much.

“Well, I’m na seein’ anything sticking out,” Miles said after a few minutes. “You have a fun number of bruises and cuts, but so far nothing critical. I’ve seen much worse around here.”

“Where are you from, Miles?”

“I’m from God’s back porch: Westport, County Mayo.” He didn’t have to specify “Ireland.” “And you?” Charlie turned her eyes away and down, and Wohl changed position — not very much, just enough for everyone to remember he was present and not let the conversation drift into unwanted territory. “Ah, that’s okay, lass, I figured as much anyway. The only whites in these parts are relief workers and spies, and you’re na dressed like a nurse.”

“Where are we?”

“You’re here at Torbat-e-Jam, the United Nations refugee camp, originally set up for the poor bastards fleein’ the Taliban in Afghanistan, and now used by the other poor bastards fleein’ the Muslim insurgents,” Miles said. “I volunteered to help bring in a load of food and supplies about six months ago, but when the doctor’s assistant went missing, I stayed. About a month ago, the doctor went missing — if the Taliban or al-Quds forces need a doctor, they don’t send fer one, they take one — so I’m fillin’ in until the next flight comes in. No tellin’ when that will be, so I play the doc and help as best I can. I lose a few more than the doc did, but I’m startin’ to get the hang of it, I think.”

“Tobat-e-Jam?”

“Iran,” Miles said. “Around here they still call it ‘Iran’—the insurgency hasn’t reached this far yet, so they don’t call it ‘Persia’ yet, although the Revolutionary Guards Corps and al-Quds forces are gettin’ pretty nervous, like the rebels are nippin’ at their heels a wee bit. We’re about sixty klicks from the border.”

“Inside Iran?”

“Afraid so, lass,” Miles said. “About two hundred kilometers from Mashhad, the capital of Khorasan province.”

“God, this is the last place we want to be,” Charlie moaned. She attempted to get up off the hard plywood board she was resting on and nearly passed out from a surging wave of pain that eclipsed anything else she had felt since awakening. “I’m not sure if I can make it yet,” she told Wohl. “Where’s my…briefcase?”

“Right here,” Wohl said, without indicating where or what they were really talking about.

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere, lass, and neither is your friend — as far as I can tell, at least,” Miles said.

“I’ll make it,” Charlie said. “How far are we from the crash site?”

“About ten klicks,” Miles replied. “What is that thing, anyway…Mercury’s chariot? It’s not exactly an airplane, is it — more like a tin can with balloons on it. It was badly burned but intact.”

“How did you find us?”

“That wasn’t a problem, lassie — we saw you streak across the sky and fall to Earth like a lightning bolt from Zeus himself!” Miles said, his eyes twinkling as the memory of seeing that sight came back. “Like the biggest meteor ever seen! You must have been trailing a tail of fire fifty kilometers long if it was an inch! It was a miracle to see three human beings still recognized as such in the wreckage, and even more amazing to find you still alive! We nearly shit our pants watchin’ you blazin’ down right toward us — thought the good Lord was going to end all of our sufferin’ right then and there on the spot — but ya missed us. Findin’ you alive was nothin’ short of a miracle.”

“Unfortunately that means that the Pasdaran probably saw us as well.”

Miles nodded. “They di’na come around too often, but they’re surely be sniffin’ around out this way, for sure. The faster we get you folks out of here, the better for all of us. You should be well enough to travel after the painkiller kicks in. It won’t be easy, but I think you can do it.” He turned to the Tin Man lying beside her. “Now this gent, I’m still not so sure. Can you tell me how to…unlock him, unscrew him, unbolt him, whatever, so I can have a look and check him over?”

“We don’t have time, Miles,” Charlie said. “We’ll carry him.” Choking back the pain, she managed to sit up on her cot. “We’ll be going now, Miles. I want to thank you for all you’ve done for us.”

“I’ll be sad to see you go, Charlie, but frankly I’d rather not have you around when the Pasdaran or al-Quds goons track you down here.” He looked carefully at Wohl and the Tin Man suit. “I think I’ve read about these things lately, haven’t I? The American anti-terrorist outfit.” Charlie didn’t respond. “Oh, I see — you could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me, right?” She laughed, causing a ripple of pain through her back, but she still welcomed the humor. “All right, no more questions, Charlie. I’ll go out and see if the coast is clear. Good luck to you, lass.”

“Thanks.” She grimaced at the pain as she started to pull herself up, but the stuff McNulty gave her must’ve started working because the pain wasn’t debilitating this time. After McNulty departed, Charlie lowered her voice and spoke, “Odin, Stud Four.”

“We read you loud and clear, Four,” Patrick McLanahan responded via the subcutaneous global transceiver system. Every member of the Air Battle Force had the communications and data transceiver system implanted into their bodies for the rest of their lives, ostensibly for situations like this but realistically to allow the government to monitor each member’s whereabouts for life. “Thank God you’re alive. We read Five is with you.”

“Affirmative — he’s alive but still unconscious,” Charlie said. Wohl started to put his helmet on, preparing to move out. “I’m going to mount up and we’ll—”

Suddenly McNulty ran back into the tent, completely out of breath. “Soldiers, just outside the camp,” he said frantically. “Hundreds of them.”

“Odin, do we have a ride yet?” Charlie radioed.

“Stud, this is Genesis,” Dave Luger cut in. “We have a CSAR team on the way from Herat, ETE ninety minutes. We’re launching cover aircraft from Batman Air Base in Turkey, but they’ll take about the same amount of time. What’s your situation?”

“Getting tense,” Charlie said. “We’ll give you a call when we’re safe. Stud Four, out.” Charlie went over to the large box lying on the dirt floor. “Any backpacks or rifles, Five?”

“Negative,” Wohl replied. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay — you had your hands full,” Charlie said. “Let’s get moving.”

Miles motioned to the large box that Wohl had been carrying with him when he entered the camp. “Are those your weapons? Now would be a good time to get them out, lass.”

“Not exactly,” Charlie said. “CID One, deploy.”

As Miles watched in amazement, the box began to move, quickly shifting size and shape like a magician’s wand changing into a bouquet of flowers. In seconds, the large but ordinary-looking metal box had transformed into a ten-foot-tall robot, almost bursting out the top of the tent, with smooth black “skin,” a bullet-shaped head with no discernible eyes or ears, and large, fully articulating arms, legs, and fingers.

“CID One, pilot up,” Charlie spoke. The robot assumed a leaning-forward stance as if on a sprinter’s starting block, but with one leg and both arms extended backward. Grimacing from the pain, Charlie stepped around the robot and climbed up the extended leg, using the arms as handrails. She entered a code into a tiny keypad somewhere behind the robot’s head, a hatch popped open on its back, and she slipped herself inside. The hatch closed…

…and moments later, to the Irishman’s amazement, the robot came to life and stood, resembling a regular person in everything but its appearance — its movements were so smooth, fluid, and lifelike that Miles immediately found himself forgetting it was a machine!

Charlie scooped up the still-unconscious Wayne Macomber. “Now is a very bad time to be out of it, Whack,” she said. She activated the Cybernetic Infantry Device’s millimeter-wave radar and scanned the area outside the tent. “Looks like they’re trying to surround us,” she said. “The south side looks like our best escape route — just one truck set up down that way.”

“How about a little diversion to the north and west?” Wohl asked, studying the radar image data being transmitted to him from Charlie’s CID unit. “Looks like a machine-gun squad getting set up on the north side. I can use one of those.”

“Sounds good.” She reached a fist out, and he punched it in return with his own. “As a hunky Australian actor said in a movie once: ‘Unleash hell.’”

“On the way. Better give him some cover.” Wohl sprinted out the front of the tent. Charlie knocked Miles to the ground and covered him just as a hail of automatic gunfire shredded the tent apart.

“Hop on, Miles,” Charlie’s electronically synthesized voice said. Still bent over, she shifted the inert form in her arms aside, far enough to form a space between her body and the Tin Man. He hesitated, still dumbfounded by what he had just seen. “You can’t stay here. The Revolutionary Guards Corps will think you’re one of us.”

“Can ye carry us both?”

“I can carry twenty of you, Miles. Let’s go.” He lay across her arms, and she rolled Macomber back on top of him and tightened her grip, sandwiching him in securely. “Hang on.”

But when she got up, there was obviously something wrong — Miles felt a high-frequency vibration within the machine, and Charlie’s gait was unsteady. “What’s wrong?” he shouted.

“The CID unit is damaged,” Charlie said. “Must’ve been from the crash.”

“I copy,” Wohl radioed. Charlie could see his position in her electronic data visor — he was moving rapidly through the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps’ positions, stopping briefly at each concentration of troops. “Head out the best you can. I’ll be beside you in a moment.”

The next few minutes were sheer torture. Wohl had drawn some of their fire away briefly, but it returned full force just moments after Charlie burst from the tent, seemingly all aimed at them. The sounds were deafening. They were consumed with clouds of smoke, occasional blasts of fire, and continuous gunfire. McNulty screamed when a round hit his left leg, and screamed again when a crushing explosion knocked Charlie to the ground. They were up again within moments, but now the smooth running rhythm was replaced by an awkward limping shuffle, like an automobile with a flat tire and bent rim.

Wohl ran beside Charlie, a Chinese Type 67 machine gun in his right hand, a metal can of ammunition in his left. “Can you travel, Captain?”

“Not for long.”

“What the hell is going on?” they heard.

“Whack!” Thankfully, Macomber was awake, although he sounded sluggish and doped-up. “Are you okay?”

“My head feels like it’s been cracked open,” Macomber said thickly. Charlie suspected a concussion. “Am I alive?”

“So far — hopefully it’ll stay that way,” Charlie said. “Can you walk?”

“Do I still have legs? I can’t feel anything down there.”

“Stay put and try not to move — you’ll squish the other passenger.”

“Other passenger?”

Charlie tried to run, but things were definitely getting worse. A rocket-propelled grenade exploded on her back, sending them flying again. “Power is down to forty percent already,” Charlie said as Wohl helped them up, “my primary hydraulic system is out, and I can’t move my right leg.”

“Can you keep moving?”

“Yes, I think so,” Charlie said. Using her right leg as a crutch, she limped along, with Wohl laying down suppression fire with his machine gun until he ran out of ammunition. He half supported, half carried Charlie, and they were able to move faster up a low ridgeline. They could easily see their pursuers below them, advancing slowly, with more and more units joining the pursuit.

Charlie set Macomber and McNulty down, then dismounted from the CID unit. “It’s getting ready to shut down,” she said. “It’s done. There’s just enough power left to start erasing the firmware. Once we move away, it’ll automatically self-destruct.”

“It looks like they’re not sure where we are,” Wohl said, scanning the desert below them with night-vision optics. He zoomed in on a few of the details. “Let’s see…infantry…infantry…ah, got one, another machine-gun squad. I’ll be right back.” He raced off into the darkness.

Macomber struggled to his hands and knees. “Okay, I’m starting to tell up from down,” he said. “Who’s our guest?”

“Miles McNulty, a UN relief worker,” Charlie replied, filling in the details.

A few minutes later, Wohl ran back with an even larger weapon than the first, a Russian DshK heavy machine gun with a huge drum magazine on top, along with a wooden box of more magazines. “Looks like they brought some anti-aircraft weapons with them — they were obviously expecting company. How are you doing, Major?”

“Peachy, Sergeant Major,” Macomber replied. He looked at McNulty. Charlie was busy tying a scrap of cloth torn from her uniform around his leg. “The passenger is hurt. Where’s the cavalry?”

“At least sixty mike out.”

“Where are we headed?”

“East toward the Afghanistan border,” Charlie said. “About thirty miles away. Hilly and pretty open. No towns or villages for fifty miles.”

“How are you doing on power, Sergeant Major?” Macomber asked.

“Down to thirty percent.”

“Here — I can’t use it yet.” He unclipped one of his circular batteries from his belt and swapped it for one of Wohl’s more depleted ones. “Can we use the CID unit to charge our batteries?”

“Not when it’s in shutdown mode, Whack,” Charlie said.

“Can’t we tap into a power or telephone pole?” Macomber asked. Charlie looked at him with astonishment. “Hey, I have been studying these things — I may not like them, but I do read the manuals. We’re not going to follow the highway, but if we spot a breaker box or control junction, I think I can rig up a jumper. Let’s get—”

“I hear helicopters,” Wohl said. He used his night-vision and enhanced hearing systems to sweep the skies, pinpointing the approaching aircraft’s position. “Two light scout helicopters, about three miles away,” he said, raising the DshK machine gun.

“Let’s spread out,” Macomber said. But he soon found out that was all but impossible: Charlie was still in pain from her injuries, and McNulty was hurt badly and going into shock, so he had to carry both of them even though he still wasn’t a hundred percent himself, so it was slow-going. Wohl moved about ten yards away from them, close enough to support them if they came under attack but not close enough that one explosive round fired from a helicopter could take them all out at once.

They had run up the ridge just a few hundred yards when Wohl shouted, “Take cover!” Macomber found the largest piece of rock nearby and threw his charges and then himself behind it, placing himself between the helicopters and the others to shield them the best he could with his armored body. The Tin Man armor system featured an electronically actuated material that stayed flexible but instantly hardened when struck into a protective shield a hundred times stronger than plate steel.

Macomber could hear the oncoming helicopters through his own enhanced hearing system, but his eyes couldn’t focus on his electronic displays. “I can’t see them, Wohl.”

“Stay down.” A moment later he opened fire with the DshK machine gun, the muzzle flash of the big 12.7-millimeter cannon illuminating a ten-yard-diameter area around him. They heard a loud metallic screech as several rounds pierced the first helicopter’s turbine engine and seized it solid, then an explosion as the engine blew itself apart. Seconds later they heard more explosions as the second scout helicopter opened fire on Wohl’s position. He managed to jump out of the way just in time to avoid the full force of the Iranian 40-millimeter rocket attack.

Wohl opened fire on the second helicopter, but the fire soon cut off. “Jammed…shit, a round stuck in the chamber…won’t clear.” He was surprised the gun had fired as many rounds as it did — it looked as if it was fifty years old and hadn’t been cleaned in half that number of years. He discarded the weapon and scanned the area for more nearby Pasdaran units so he could grab another machine gun, but the three remaining units were hanging back, blindly peppering the ridgeline with occasional rifle and mortar fire and content to let the scout helicopter do some fighting for them.

“The infantry units are hanging back, and there’s still one helicopter overhead,” Wohl reported. “I’m down to throwing rocks.” He wasn’t kidding — the microhydraulically actuated exoskeleton on the Tin Man combat system gave him enough power to hurl a five-pound rock almost two hundred yards with enough force to do some damage, which could put him within range of that scout helicopter if he could dash toward it, jump, and throw with perfect timing. He found a softball-sized rock and prepared to do just that…

…but then his sensors picked up another helicopter, and this time it wasn’t a little scout. He’d recognize that silhouette anywhere: “We’ve got more trouble, ma’am,” Wohl said. “Looks like a Mi-24 Hind inbound.” The Russian-built Mi-24, NATO code name “Hind,” was a large attack helicopter which could also carry up to eight fully outfitted soldiers inside. It carried a formidable array of weapons…

…the first of which opened fire seconds later, from over three miles away. Wohl immediately dashed away from the rest of his team, then stopped to make sure the anti-tank guided missile was still tracking him. It was, and he realized that the helicopter itself was following him too, which meant that the helicopter crew had to keep him in sight to keep the missile on him. Good. It had to be an older guided missile, probably an AT-6 line-of-sight radio-controlled missile.

Wohl waited another heartbeat, then dashed toward the nearest group of Pasdaran ground pursuers at top speed. He could no longer see the missile, but he remembered that an AT-6’s flight time was somewhere around ten seconds when fired from maximum range. That meant he had just seconds to make it. This Pasdaran unit was an armored vehicle with a heavy machine gun on top, which opened fire as he closed in. A few shells hit, but not enough to slow him down. Now he was between the armored vehicle and the helicopter — certainly, Wohl thought, the Hind’s gunner had to turn the missile away. His mental stopwatch ran to zero…

…just as the AT-6 Spiral anti-tank missile slammed into the Pasdaran armored vehicle, setting it afire in a spectacular fireball. Wohl was thrown skyward by the concussion. The damned Pasdaran gunner got so target-fixated that he lined up and hit his own guys!

Wohl rolled unsteadily to his feet, alive and mostly unhurt except his eyes and throat were clogged with oily smoke. The entire left side of his helmet, along with most of his sensors and communications, had been damaged in the blast. He had no choice but to take the helmet off. The blast had also ruined his hearing, and the acrid smoke burned his eyes and throat. He was a sitting duck. His first order of business was to get away from the burning vehicles behind him, which could be highlighting him…

…but before he could move, a line of automatic gunfire stitched the ground in front of him, and the big Mi-24 Hind attack helicopter zoomed before him and stopped, the chin-mounted 30-millimeter cannon trained directly on him. His armor would protect his body, but that would be of no use to him without a head. Wohl had no idea if they would accept a surrender, but if they were distracted long enough it might provide the others a chance to escape, so he raised his hands. The Mi-24 started its descent to touchdown, and he could see the clamshell crew doors open on either side, with soldiers ready to dismount as soon as the big chopper set…

…and at that instant there was a flash of fire on the right side of the attack chopper, followed by a large plume of smoke, more fire, an explosion, and a scream of metal, and then the big chopper spun to the left and hit the ground. Wohl dashed away just as the helicopter began to disintegrate in several more tremendous explosions. He was about to head back toward the others when he saw several vehicles, including an armored personnel carrier, approach. The lead vehicle, a pickup truck with a machine gunner in back, was flying a flag, but he couldn’t make it out yet. He thought about running away from where he last left Turlock, Macomber, and the Irishman…until he saw the vehicles veer left away from him and toward the hiding place.

Wohl took off at top speed toward the vehicle at the tail end of the six-vehicle convoy, which had a machine gunner covering the rear of the formation. The other vehicles wouldn’t fire toward their own vehicles, and hopefully he could reach the machine gunner, disable him, and take the gun before he could get a shot off. Just a hundred yards to go…

…and then he saw Turlock coming out of her hiding place, with her arms up. Was she surrendering? It might be good timing after all — if they were concentrating on them he had a better chance of reaching the last pickup truck and…

…but then as he got closer Wohl realized that Turlock wasn’t raising her hands in surrender, but waving to him, motioning him back! Why was she doing this? Now she was pointing at the lead vehicle, the one with the flag…

…and Wohl finally realized what she was trying to tell him. The flag the vehicle was carrying had the green, white, and red stripes of the Islamic Republic of Iran on it, but the center symbol wasn’t the “red tulip” stylized word “Allah,” but the profile of a lion carrying a sword with the rising sun behind it — the flag representing the pre-revolutionary era and the opposition to the Islamists.

Chris trotted over to Turlock and Macomber, carefully watching to be sure none of the gunners pointed their weapons at him. “Not answering your phone, Sergeant Major?” Turlock asked, pointing to her ear, indicating his subcutaneous transceiver system.

“Got my bell rung back there,” Wohl said. He nodded toward the newcomers. “Who are these guys?”

“These are Buzhazi’s men,” Charlie said. “General McLanahan actually called Buzhazi and asked for help.”

“They came right on time. Good thing they brought Stinger missiles with them.”

“They didn’t shoot down the Hind, Sergeant Major.” Charlie pointed to the sky, and they saw the contrails of a very large aircraft high overhead. “Compliments of the general. They’ll be on station for another two hours.”

“Outstanding. That should get us enough time to get across the border.”

“The general suggests we head back toward Tehran with these guys,” Charlie said. “They’re bringing in a helicopter to pick us up, and the Vampires will cover for us.”

“I don’t think that’s such a hot idea, ma’am.”

“I’ll explain.” She did…and Wohl couldn’t believe what he had just heard.