Shadow Command

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Frankly, Brit, I don’t care what the Russians say,” Senate majority leader Stacy Anne Barbeau said. She was in the second-floor area of the Senate normally used by reporters for “staking out” senators for comments on their way to the floor or between committee meetings. “They have been claiming all sorts of things for many months and none of them have been proven. Although I believe Leonid Zevitin to be a capable and forthright leader, the statements made by his foreign minister Alexandra Hedrov seem more shrill and bombastic every time we see her in the news. President Zevitin is certainly not like that at all, which naturally leads me to the obvious question: Who is telling the truth out there at the Kremlin these days, and who is lying, and for what purpose?”

“But tomorrow there is a key vote in the Senate about funding for the U.S. military,” the reporter pressed, “and in the midst of all this wrangling about where to spend the money in the military, President Zevitin’s Cabinet members seem to be taking great pleasure in stirring up anxiety about another future confrontation. Are the two activities related, and if so to what end?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what is in the mind of a Russian, even one as Westernized, worldly, and charming as Leonid Zevitin,” Barbeau said. “I would think they would want to avoid rattling sabers at a time where we in the Congress are trying to determine the proper direction for the world’s greatest military force.”

“But this is more than just saber-rattling, Senator,” the reporter went on. “There is definitely something stirring out there, Senator, and I’m not just talking about the turmoil in Iran, but with American military activities, isn’t there? To put it plainly, ma’am: We can’t seem to get out of our own way. The civil war in Iran is threatening to blow the entire Middle East into an inferno, and yet we’re not doing much of anything except sending unmanned reconnaissance aircraft over the region; oil prices are skyrocketing; the economy is sinking like a rock; Russia accuses us daily of killing civilians, bombing a civil relief base in Iran, and causing unrest and chaos around the world, especially with the Armstrong Space Station and our spaceplanes; the space program seems robust and substantial one day, then completely ineffectual the next. We even have a famous and well-loved American three-star general, the hero of the American Holocaust, in essence stranded in space because no one can tell us if he’s well enough to be brought back home. My question is, madam: What in the world is happening, what has Congress been told by the White House and the Pentagon, and what are you going to do about it?”

Barbeau gave him her most appealing mind-blowing smile, again defining the phrase “making love to the camera” to millions of viewers as she replied: “Why, sir, what a dreadful picture of doom and gloom you are painting here this morning! Let me assure you, and everyone in your audience around the world, that the Congress of the United States is working very closely with the President and his department officials not only to deal with current and future crises as they rear their ugly heads, but to chart a course for America’s armed forces that is second to none, forward-looking, adaptable, scalable, and affordable. It has been less than five years since the American Holocaust, and three different governments have had to deal with the world as it has become since those awful attacks on our soil. We are making progress, but it will take time.”

“So tell us how you envision the debate will develop, Senator. What’s on the table?”

“The most important question for us right now is simply this: What is the best force to take the place of the land-based long-range strategic bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles that were destroyed in the Holocaust?” Barbeau replied, still radiant even while wearing a stern, concerned, determined expression. “President Thorn favored land- and sea-based tactical air forces, both manned and unmanned, along with ballistic missile defense systems. President Martindale favored the same but, as advocated by his special adviser General Patrick McLanahan, also sought to ‘skip a generation,’ as he said, and develop a fleet of spaceplanes that could strike any target anywhere around the world with amazing speed, launch satellites into orbit whenever needed, and fly troops and equipment anywhere around the planet within hours.

“As the former Secretary of Defense, Joseph Gardner supported those ideas and encouraged development of Armstrong Space Station, the entire constellation of space-based assets, and the Black Stallion spaceplane,” Barbeau went on. “The space program has taken some amazing strides and has greatly benefited the entire world — the global Internet access provided by our space program has without question truly changed all of our lives and brought our world together — but it has also suffered some serious setbacks. As President, Joseph Gardner has wisely recognized that perhaps the space-based defense force visualized by Patrick McLanahan wasn’t mature enough yet to serve America.”

“So where does this leave us, Senator?” the host asked.

“President Gardner has met with the leadership and proposed a more reliable, familiar, proven mix of weapon systems,” Barbeau said. “He wants to take the best concepts proposed by previous administrations and combine them in a comprehensive program to quickly stand up a credible force to meet the country’s needs.”

“And which concepts are those, Senator?”

“I can’t give you any specifics, Brit, or I’ll have a lot of very angry gentlemen nipping at my heels in short order,” Barbeau said sweetly. “But in a nutshell, we have the individual services do what the services do best, what has served the nation and the world so well for the past three generations but also recognizes changes in technology and our vision for the future: fully fund and support an expanded and strengthened Army and Marine Corps as the dominant land and special operations forces; fully support the Navy as the dominant sea and air force; and the Air Force as the dominant global support and space defense force.”

“The Air Force wouldn’t be the dominant air force in the U.S. arsenal? That doesn’t seem right.”

“Details have yet to be worked out, and of course I’m sure we will adjust and rearrange things as necessary to ensure the absolute best force we can build,” Barbeau began, “but it seems to President Gardner and we in the congressional leadership that there is a wasteful and costly overlap between the Air Force and Navy regarding tactical air forces. It all comes down to the basic notion, Brit, that Navy planes can do everything Air Force planes can do, but Air Force planes cannot do everything Navy planes can do — namely, take off and land on an aircraft carrier, which as everyone readily recognizes is the undisputed definition of power projection in the world today.”

“And the President as we all know is a big supporter of the Navy, being the former Navy secretary.”

“It’s a duplication of forces, plain and simple, and now is the time to address this if we want to have a robust, mature, twenty-first century fighting force,” Barbeau said. “We’re trying to think ahead. The Air Force is the proven expert in long-range strategic attack and rapid resupply, and the Navy has no such equivalent capability — it makes sense to give that mission to the Air Force and let the Navy have the mission of training and equipping tactical fighters for theater commanders around the world.”

“Won’t your constituents in Louisiana object to this plan, Senator?”

“I represent the finest, most patriotic, and most pro-military folks in the country, Brit: the good people of Barksdale Air Force Base near Bossier City, Louisiana — Bomber Town, USA,” Barbeau said. “But even the staunchest bomber supporters, like me, have seen the shift coming for years: the shift from World War Two — era land-based bombers to the importance of global reach, rapid mobility, unmanned aircraft, space technology, and most importantly, information warfare. The Air Force is and will remain the leader in these areas. We’ve seen this coming for years, and President Gardner and I think it’s time to design our twenty-first-century forces around this new reality.”

“But the battles are just beginning, aren’t they, Senator?”

“With President Gardner’s strong leadership and his steadfast pledge to work closely with Congress, I think the battles will be kept to the barest minimum. Together, we’ll prevail. The alternative is too awful to consider.”

“So does this mean we’ll see the end of the Black Stallion spaceplanes and military space stations watching over us 24/7?”

“The Black Stallion is a remarkable technological advancement, to be sure, but as we’ve seen with a man like General McLanahan, it has its risks and dangers,” Barbeau said, a serious look of concern briefly shadowing her features. “My heart sank when I learned of General McLanahan’s illness, and we are doing everything we can to bring him safely home. But my concern is this, Brit: Patrick…General McLanahan…is a powerful man. You know the stories as well as I, Brit…”

“The ones about McLanahan being challenged by visiting heads of state and generals to rip their respective capital’s phone books in half?” the reporter filled in with a chuckle. “I thought that was a White House Press Corps rumor.”

“It’s not a rumor, I assure you!” Barbeau exclaimed. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes — Patrick can rip a D.C. phone book in half as easily as you or I could rip a page out of your little notebook there. And yet he was still brought down by something difficult to detect, diagnose, or treat, something so debilitating that it could put the lives of every space crewman we have in jeopardy. There is great concern that the injury has affected more than just his heart.”

The reporter’s mouth opened in surprise. “I haven’t heard anything about that, Senator. Would you care to elaborate? What exactly do you mean?”

“It’s all just speculation and nonsense, I’m sure,” Barbeau said dismissively, acting as if she’d said something completely unintended but riveting the attention of every viewer by looking directly into the camera for a brief moment. “But we do need to fully understand what happened to him. We owe it to him because he is truly a national treasure, a hero in every sense of the word.

“But the fundamental question remains: Can we afford to put our nation’s military future on hold while we study this awful catastrophe?” Barbeau asked resolutely, first looking at the reporter and then directly at the camera, right into the hearts of the viewers. “As responsible caretakers of our armed forces, sworn to build the best possible force to protect and defend our homeland and way of life, the answer is simple and obvious: the space defense force is not ready, and so we must turn to proven systems that we know will work. That’s our job here today, and with the cooperation of the President and the House, we’re going to get it done. The American people expect no less from us.”

Stacy Anne Barbeau fielded more questions from the gaggle of reporters, until finally the officials of the Senate Press Gallery and Barbeau’s aide shooed them away and let her go. On the way to a late-night meeting in a committee conference room, she took a call on her cellular phone: “I thought you laid on the praise for McLanahan a little too thick, Stacy Anne,” President Joe Gardner said. “His ass will be grass here shortly.”

“All the more reason to sing his praises, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, greeting supporters and colleagues as she walked and talked. “I advise you to do similarly, Mr. President: Let your Secretary of Defense, the pundits, the Russians, and the anti-military media trash him, not us.”

“You won’t be saying that when you hear what just happened, Senator.”

Barbeau’s mouth instantly turned dry. “What’s happened, Mr. President?” she asked, turning a puzzled expression to her aide, Colleen Morna. As they reached the conference room, Morna immediately shooed everyone else out so Barbeau could talk in private.

“McLanahan lost it, and I mean completely,” Gardner said. She detected a slight hint of triumph in his voice, like he’d finally gotten something that Barbeau didn’t have and expected some quid pro quo for sharing it with her. “His people took over a Turkish air base, captured the base commander and most of the personnel with their manned robots, then launched another air mission over Iran.”

Barbeau froze, and her mouth dropped open in complete shock before she exclaimed, “What!” Her expression was so alarming that her aide Colleen Morna thought she was having a heart attack. “I…I don’t believe it…”

“What do you say about your knight in shining armor now, Stacy?” the President asked. “But you haven’t heard the best part. When the brass sent in some security units from Incirlik Air Base to arrest McLanahan’s people, they were gone. The planes and most of their stuff are gone. We have no idea where they are.”

“They…they must be on their way back to the States, Mr. President…”

“Not that anyone is aware, Stacy,” Gardner said. “McLanahan has stolen about four experimental attack planes and moved them somewhere. We hope they’re on their way back to Dreamland, their main base in south-central Nevada north of Vegas. If they are, McLanahan can be charged with conspiracy and sedition against the U.S. government. How about them apples? How’s your hero looking now?”

“I…I just cannot believe it, Mr. President,” Barbeau breathed. Shit, after what she just said to the media, all the nice things about McLanahan…God, this could ruin her! “We need to meet and discuss this right away, Mr. President. We need to come up with a united stance, both for Congress and for the press.”

“We’re getting all the information we can, and we’ll prepare a briefing for the leadership that we’ll give first thing in the morning,” the President said. “McLanahan is going down, I promise you, and so is his entire command. He won’t be so popular after people find out what he’s done. We won’t have to look like we’re destroying a national hero anymore — he’s taking himself down.”

“We need all the facts first, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, her mind racing, trying to make sense of this explosive news. “Why exactly did he launch those bombers? McLanahan doesn’t do something for no reason.”

“It doesn’t matter one bit to me, Stacy,” Gardner said. “He’s disobeyed orders, ignored my authority, and now he’s launched military strike missions overseas, stolen military property, moved and directed military forces without authority, and opposed our own and allied military forces. For all we know, he could be engineering a military coup against the government or even preparing a military strike against Washington. He has to be stopped!”

“Whatever our response is, Mr. President, I suggest we find out all we can first, carefully discuss it, formulate a plan, and carry it out together,” Barbeau repeated. “I know your military forces are an executive responsibility, but it would be easier to do what we have to do if we are together on this beforehand.”

“Agreed,” the President said. “We should meet and discuss strategy, Senator, after we present our findings. Tonight. Private meeting in the Oval Office.”

Barbeau rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man’s greatest general just stole some bombers and captured a Turkish air base, and all the man could think about was canoodling with the Senate majority leader. But she had been suddenly thrust onto the defensive, especially after her statements to the press, and the President had the upper hand. If she wanted any chance of retaining her bargaining position for the space force funds that were certainly going to be freed up soon, she had to play his game…for now. “The Senate has a full schedule, Mr. President, but I’m sure I can…squeeze you in,” Barbeau said, flipping the phone closed.

“What in the world happened?” her aide, Colleen Morna, asked. “You look as pale as a ghost.”

“Possibly the worst thing imaginable…or it could be the best,” she said. “Set up a meeting with the President after the last agenda conference tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s already past five, and you have that meeting with that law firm that represents those defense and technology industry lobbies at seven. That was scheduled to last until nine. What’s the President want? What’s going on?”

“We all know what the President has got on his mind. Set it up.”

“It’ll be another late night, and with the Armed Services Committee hearings starting tomorrow, you’ll be running ragged. What’s so important that the President wants to meet so late? He still wants to take McLanahan to the woodshed?”

“Not just to the woodshed — he wants to bury the whole damned ax in his chest,” Barbeau said. She filled her in quickly, and soon Morna’s expression was even more flabbergasted than her own. “I don’t know precisely what happened, but I think I know McLanahan: he’s the definition of a goody two-shoes. If he hit something in Iran, he probably had spot-on intelligence that something bad was going down, and he didn’t get the green light to take it out, so he did the deed himself. Gardner should be encouraging him, not taking him on. But the President wants to show he’s still in charge and in control, so he’s going to destroy McLanahan.” She thought for a moment; then: “We need to find out exactly what’s happened, but not from Gardner’s perspective. We need our own intel on this. McLanahan’s not crazy. If we come to his rescue, we might come out on top of this after all.”

“Now you want McLanahan to win, Stacy?” Morna asked.

“Of course I want him to win, Colleen, but I want him to win for me, not just for himself or even for the country!” Barbeau said. “He’s a genuine hero, a knight in shining armor, as Gardner puts it. Gardner’s pride is hurt, and he’s not thinking clearly. I need to find out what he has in mind, even if it means doin’ the dirty with him whenever the First Lady is on the road, but then we need to find out what really happened and plan our own strategy. I gotta keep my eye on the prize, honey, and that is getting contracts and perks for my buddies in Louisiana.”

“What if he’s really flipped out?”

“We need to find out what happened to McLanahan and what he did out in Iran, and fast,” Barbeau said. “I’m not going to blindly side with the President and oppose McLanahan unless the guy really has flipped out, which I seriously doubt. Get on the horn and find out all you can about what happened. You still in contact with the space playboy buddy of his…what’s his name?”

“Hunter Noble.”

“Oh yes, the luscious Captain Noble, the young space cowboy. You need to pump him for information, but not make it sound like it. You still screwing him?”

“I’m one of a very long line of Hunter Noble East Coast screwees.”

“You can do better than that, child,” Barbeau said, giving her a pat on the back and then a discreet one on the butt. “Don’t just be another squeeze — be his wingman, his confidante. Tell him the Senate Armed Services Committee is going to look in on goings-on in Dreamland, and you’d like to help. Warn him. Maybe he’ll give up some useful information.”

“It’ll be tough to meet up with the guy if he’s flying around in space, stuck in that base out there in the desert…or in prison.”

“We might have to plan a fact-finding trip to Vegas soon so you can really put the squeeze on him. Maybe I’ll get to join in too.” She paused, savoring the thought of a three-way with the Air Force playboy. “Tell him that if he cooperates, we can keep his tight young ass out of prison.” She smiled and added, “And if he doesn’t cooperate, get me some dirt on the boy that I can use against him. If he won’t play nice, we’ll use him to start dismantling McLanahan and the rest of those characters at Dreamland.”

The motorcade of armored Mercedes sedans and limousines sped down Me’raj Avenue toward Mehrabad International Airport unhindered by roadblocks. All along the motorcade route, General Buzhazi had his troops take down the checkpoints and barricades just before the motorcade arrived, let it pass, then hurriedly put them back up. The heavy troop presence throughout western Tehran that night kept citizens and insurgents away from the main thoroughfares, so few got to see the extraordinary procedures.

The motorcade bypassed the main terminal, where Buzhazi had set up his headquarters, and instead moved quickly down a taxiway and out to a row of Iran Air hangars. Here security appeared routine, almost invisible — unless you had night-vision goggles and a map showing the locations of dozens of sniper and infantry units scattered throughout the airport grounds.

A lone unmarked plain white Boeing 727 sat in front of one of the hangars, its airstair guarded by two security men in suits and ties. The lead sedan pulled forward just beyond the foot of the airstair, and four men in dark business suits, dark caps similar to chauffeur’s hats, white shirts, dark ties, dark slacks and shoes, and carrying submachine pistols exited and took up stations around the stairs and the nose of the aircraft. One by one the two stretch limousines pulled up to the foot of the airstair, with more sedans unleashing eight more similarly attired and armed security agents to guard the tail and right side of the aircraft. Out of each limo several individuals exited, including an older man in a military uniform, a young woman surrounded by bodyguards, and men and women both in Western-style business suits and Iranian-style high-collared jackets.

In moments all the persons had trotted up the stairs and into the jetliner. The security men stayed in their positions until the jet had started its engines, and then they re-entered their sedans. The big armored cars formed a bubble around all sides of the airliner as it taxied down the empty taxiways and to the main runway, and in minutes the jetliner was airborne. The limousines retreated to a secure fenced area behind the Iran Air hangars and were parked outside a battered-looking repair garage. The Mercedes sedans performed a quick patrol of the ramp and hangar perimeters, then were parked in the same fenced area as the limousines. Minutes after the drivers and security men stepped out and locked their cars, workers came out, used towels to wipe dirt off the vehicles, and covered each of them with elastic-bottomed nylon covers. The lights were turned out, and soon the airport returned to the tense quiet it had become since the insurgency began.

The gaggle of security agents walked across the parking ramp to the main terminal building, weapons slung on their shoulders, most smoking, all saying little. They had their ID badges examined by a security guard outside the terminal and were allowed inside. They walked across the passenger concourse to a door marked CREWMEMBERS ONLY, had their ID badges checked once more, and were admitted. Other agents inside took their weapons, unloaded and cleared them, and the group went down a dimly lit hallway and inside to a conference room.

“I think everyone played their part as best as could be expected,” the first “security guard,” General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, said. “Nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Chancellor?”

“I found it uncomfortable, unconvincing, unnecessary, and if my hearing has been damaged by those aircraft engines, I will hold you personally responsible, General Buzhazi,” Masoud Noshahr, the Lord High Chancellor of the Qagev royal court, said indignantly. He was tall and thin, in his late forties, with long and slightly curly gray hair, a salt-and-pepper goatee, and long and delicate-looking fingers. Although he was young and appeared healthy, Noshahr, obviously unaccustomed to much physical exertion, was out of breath from their fast walking pace and from climbing stairs instead of taking elevators. He stripped off the jacket and cap and removed the tie as if they were burning his skin with acid, then snapped his fingers to one of the other men in dark suits, one of his real security guards, who went to fetch his ankle-length fur and leather coat. “It was nothing but a petty parlor game that fooled no one.”

“We had better hope it worked, Lord Chancellor,” another of the “security guards,” Princess Azar Assiyeh Qagev, said. Instead of handing her weapon off to a guard, she unloaded and cleared it herself, then began field-stripping the weapon for inspection and cleaning. “The insurgents penetrate our network deeper and deeper every day.”

“And we capture and kill more of them every day as well, Highness,” Noshahr reminded her. “God and time are on our side, Princess, have no fear.” Finally his attention was drawn to the weapon disassembly going on in front of him. “What in the world are you doing, Highness?” Noshahr asked in amazement as Azar’s deformed but obviously skilled fingers worked the seemingly hidden levers and pins of the weapon. He squinted uncomfortably at the princess working with the submachine gun and nodded to a bodyguard, who went over to the princess, bowed politely at the waist, then reached out to take the gun parts from her hands. She gave him a stern expression and a slight shake of her head, and he bowed again and backed away. In seconds the submachine gun lay in pieces before her on the table.

“You don’t carry an unknown or unfamiliar weapon into battle, Lord Chancellor,” Azar said. “How do you know if the thing will work when you want it to? How do you even know if it was loaded if you don’t bother to check?”

“We carried those things for show, to fool any insurgents who may have been watching us,” Noshahr said. “I don’t care what shape it’s in. That’s why we have trained guards with us. Princesses are not supposed to be handling dangerous weapons.”

“It’s not dangerous now, Lord Chancellor — it looks like it’s in good shape to me,” Azar said. She began to reassemble the weapon. In less than thirty seconds it was back together, loaded, cocked, and safed, and she slung it over her shoulder. “I don’t carry weapons for show.”

“Very impressive, Highness,” Noshahr said, hiding his astonishment with a bored and unimpressed expression. He turned to Buzhazi. “We’re wasting time here. Now that we have played along with your charade, General — putting the princes in considerable danger, I will maintain — shall we get down to business?”

“Let’s,” Buzhazi responded, using the same haughty country-club tone of voice as Noshahr. “I asked you to come here to talk about coordinating our efforts against Mohtaz and his foreign insurgents. Last night’s gun battle with what turned out to be your assassination squad must never be repeated. We need to start working together.”

“The fault was completely yours, General,” Noshahr said. “Your troops did not allow our freedom fighters to identify themselves. They had just come from a successful raid on an insurgent hideout when your men opened fire. My men discovered more than three dozen high-explosive devices ready for the streets, including a dozen suicide bomber vests and explosives disguised to look like everything from telephones to baby carriages.”

“I’ve had that bomb-making factory under surveillance for days, Noshahr,” Buzhazi said. “We were waiting for the master bomb-maker to arrive to arm those bombs. What good does it do to kill a bunch of low-level know-nothing worker bees and let the chief bomb-maker himself escape? Now it’ll take us another month or more to locate the new factory, and by then they’ll have fabricated another three dozen or more bombs to use against us.”

“Do not change the subject, Buzhazi,” Noshahr snapped. “Your unit’s sneak attack cost us the lives of six of our best agents. We demand reparations, and we demand that you withdraw your troops from the slums and alleys and confine your activities to the avenues, highways, and the airport. Or, better yet, place yourself and your troops under the command of the council of war, which is the legitimate and rightful government of Persia, and we shall ensure that you shall not interfere again with our anti-terrorist missions.”

“We bear equal responsibility for their deaths, Lord Chancellor,” Azar said.

“You don’t have to apologize for the war council’s mistakes, Azar—”

“You will address Her Highness properly, Buzhazi!” Noshahr ordered. “You dare not speak to the princess as if she is a commoner!”

“She’s not my princess, Noshahr,” Buzhazi said, “and I don’t take orders from pretend generals or defense ministers like you, either!”

“How dare you! The Shahdokht is the rightful heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia, and you will address her as such and show her the proper respect! And I will remind you that I am the appointed chancellor of the Qagev court, royal minister of war, and marshal of the council of war! Have some respect for the office, even if you have no respect for yourself!”

“Noshahr, a year ago you were hanging out in the casinos in Monaco and making up stories about leading freedom fighters against the Pasdaran while trying to boink old rich ladies for their money,” Buzhazi said. “In the meantime your loyalists were being captured and tortured because you couldn’t keep your drunken mouth shut about their identities and locations—”

“That is preposterous!” Noshahr sputtered.

“The Pasdaran spies in Monaco, Singapore, and Las Vegas were getting a constant stream of information about your network just by sitting near you in the casinos, bars, and whorehouses you frequented, listening to you spin your wild stories about single-handedly freeing Iran.”

“You peasant! You insolent pup! How dare you speak to me like this!” Noshahr cried. “I serve a king and his queen, directed twenty million loyalists around the world, equip and organize a fighting force of half a million, and have kept the royal treasury safe and secure for the past twenty years! You are little more than a thief and murderer, disgraced by your own words and actions over two decades, and demoted and humiliated by the government you served and then betrayed. You are spurned by your fellow citizens, and you lead by nothing more than fear of the next murderous rampage you will embark on, like the hideous massacre at Qom. You dare call yourself a Persian—!”

“I don’t call myself anything you call yourself, Noshahr!” Buzhazi shouted. He turned to Azar, his eyes blazing. “I won’t have anything to do with you or your so-called court, Princess, as long as he’s in charge. I’m not in the mood for playing dress-up and kings and castles.”

“General—”

“Sorry, Princess, but this is a huge waste of my time,” Buzhazi said angrily. “I’ve got a war to fight. This imbecile who calls himself a marshal and minister of war doesn’t know which end of a rifle to point at the enemy. I need fighters, not popinjays. I’ve got work to do.”

“General, please stay.”

“I’m leaving. Good luck to you and your pretty little court jesters, Princess.”

“General, I said stay!” Azar shouted. She whipped off the dark cap, letting her long mun whip in the air. The Persians in the room were stunned into silence by the sudden appearance by the symbol of royalty in their midst…all except Buzhazi, who was stunned instead by the young woman’s commanding tone of voice: part drill sergeant, part disapproving mother, part field general.

“Shahdokht…Highness…my lady…” Noshahr sputtered, his eyes fixed on the dark shining flowing locks as if a golden scepter had just appeared before his eyes, “I think it is time for us to depart and—”

“You will stay and shut your mouth, Chancellor!” Azar snapped. “We have important business to discuss.”

“We cannot conduct business with this…this terrorist!” Noshahr said. “He’s nothing but an old tottering fool with delusions of grandeur—”

“I said, we have business to discuss with the general,” Azar said. This time the word “we” coming from her lips had a different meaning: it no longer referred to him, but clearly indicated the imperial “we,” meaning her alone. “Be silent, Chancellor.”

“Be…silent…?” Noshahr gurgled, his mouth opening and closing indignantly. “Pardon me, Shahdokht, but I am the Lord High Chancellor of the royal court, the representative of the king in his absence. I have full and sole authority to negotiate and make agreements and alliances with friendly and allied forces.”

“Not any longer, Chancellor,” Azar said forcefully. “It has been a year since anyone has heard or seen the king and queen. In the meantime the court has been run by appointed servants who, although true and loyal, do not have the interests of the people in mind.”

“I beg your pardon, Shahdokht—!”

“It’s true, Chancellor, and you know it,” Azar said. “Your primary objective has been the organization, security, and placement of the court, in preparation for running the government upon the return of the king and queen. You have done a fine job of that, Chancellor. The court is safe, secure, well run, well financed, and is ready to administer this country when the time comes. But right now the people don’t need or want an administrator — they want a leader and a general.”

“I am the rightful leader until the king returns, Shahdokht,” Noshahr insisted. “And as minister of war and marshal of the council of war, I am the commander-in-chief of our military forces. There are no others permitted.”

“You’re wrong, Chancellor…I am,” Azar said.

“You? But that…that is highly irregular, Shahdokht,” Noshahr said. “A proclamation of death or abdication has not yet been made. A council must be convened, composed of myself, the religious leaders, and representatives of the eleven royal houses, to investigate the likely whereabouts of the king and queen and decide what actions to take. That is impossible and unsafe to do in time of war!”

“Then, as heir apparent, I will make the proclamation myself,” Azar said.

“You!” Noshahr repeated. “You…that is…pardon me for saying so, Shahdokht, but that is an insult to the memory of your blessed father and mother, our beloved king and queen. They may be still in hiding, or perhaps injured and healing, or even captured. Our enemies could be waiting for you to do such a thing and then reveal that they are still alive, hoping to throw us into confusion and rebellion against the court and royal family. You cannot…I mean, you should not do this, Shahdokht—”

“I am no longer Shahdokht, Chancellor,” Azar said. “You will hereby refer to me as Malika.”

Noshahr gulped, his eyes bulging. He stole a glance back at his bodyguards, then back at Azar, studying her carefully, trying to decide if she meant what she’d just said and if she would back down or compromise if confronted. “I…I am afraid I cannot allow that, Princess,” he said, after finally summoning up enough courage. “I have a responsibility to the king and queen to safeguard and preserve the court. In their absence, and without guidance from a council of the royal houses, I’m afraid I cannot do as you wish.”

Azar lowered her eyes, nodded, and seemed to even sigh. “Very well, Chancellor. I see your point of view.”

Noshahr was filled with relief. He would certainly have to deal with this young Americanized upstart, and soon — she obviously had aspirations far beyond her years, and that could not be tolerated. But he was willing to act the supportive and protective uncle — all the better to keep an eye on her while he…

“I see it is time to take back the throne,” Azar said. In a blur of motion, she suddenly whipped the German-made Heckler & Koch HK-54 submachine gun up and steadied it from her hip…aiming it squarely on Masoud Noshahr’s chest. “You are under arrest, Chancellor, for defying my authority.” She turned to the Persian bodyguards behind Noshahr. “Guards, place the chancellor under arrest.”

“This is preposterous!” Noshahr screamed, more in shock and surprise than anger. “How dare you?”

“I dare because I am the Malika, Chancellor,” Azar said confidently, “and the throne has been vacant long enough.” She looked past Noshahr to the bodyguards, who still had their guns slung on their shoulders. “Guards, place the chancellor under arrest. He is forbidden to make any communications with the outside.”

“They won’t follow you, Azar Assiyeh,” Noshahr said. “They are loyal to me and to the king and queen, the rightful rulers of Persia. They will not follow a spoiled, bewitched brat from America.”

Azar glanced around the conference room, noting that neither Lieutenant Colonel Najar nor Major Saidi, her longtime aides, had raised their weapons — they were unslung, but still pointing at the floor with safeties on. The same with Hesarak Buzhazi and his bodyguard, Major Haddad, and the chief of the infantry brigade based at Mehrabad Airport, Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, both of whom had accompanied them on this diversionary mission. She was the only one with her weapon raised.

“I gave an order, Master Sergeant: Place the chancellor under arrest,” Azar commanded. “Allow no outside communications. If he resists, bind and gag him.” Still no one moved.

“Master Sergeant…all of you, it is time to make a decision,” Azar said, affixing each of them with a steady gaze, hoping to hell her hands wouldn’t start shaking. “You may follow Chancellor Noshahr and continue on with this so-called revolution as it has been for the past year, or swear loyalty to me and to the Peacock Throne, and follow me in taking back this country for a free Persian republic.”

“Follow you?” Noshahr sneered. “You’re just a girl. You may be a princess, but you’re not a queen — and you’re certainly not a general. The loyalists won’t follow a girl into battle. What will you do if no one chooses to accept you as queen?”

“Then I will abdicate my title and join General Buzhazi’s forces,” Azar replied, to the absolute amazement of all. “It is time to join forces and fight as one nation, and if it won’t be done under the Qagev banner, it will be under the general’s flag. If you’re ready to take me and my followers, General, we’re ready to join you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hesarak Buzhazi said…and to everyone’s great surprise, he unslung his submachine gun, held it before him with arms outstretched…and dropped to one knee before Azar. “Because I am surrendering command of my forces and pledging my loyalty to the Malika Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the rightful queen of Persia and mistress of the Peacock Throne.”

Azar smiled, silently praying that she wouldn’t keel over from the surprise or burst into tears herself, then nodded. “We are pleased to accept your oath of loyalty, Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi.” She kissed his forehead, then put her hands on his shoulders. “Rise, sir, take your weapon, and assume leadership of the ministry of war and the council of war of the royal court of Qagev, and command of the combined forces of the Democratic Republic of Persia…Marshal Buzhazi.”

“Thank you, Malika,” Buzhazi said. He turned to Noshahr. “My first official act shall be to offer an appointment to Masoud Noshahr as deputy minister of war, vice marshal of the army, and my representative to the court. Do you accept?”

“You want me to serve under you?” Noshahr asked, even more shocked now than before. “You take my position and then you want me back? Why?”

“The queen is a good and astute judge of character, Noshahr,” Buzhazi said. “If she says you have served the court well as chancellor and prepared it to lead the country when the time came, I believe her. I want you to keep on doing your job, the one you’re best at. Prepare the court to rule a constitutional monarchy, and keep supplies and equipment flowing to my troops. I need someone to represent me in Tehran, because I’ll be in the streets suppressing this insurgency and restoring security to the country. That’s what I’m good at. And as vice-marshal, you will answer to me. Screw up, and you’ll have to deal with me. Do you accept?”

For a moment Buzhazi thought Noshahr was going to say something crude or insulting; instead, he did something Buzhazi never thought he’d do: he saluted. “Yes, sir, I accept.”

“Very good, Vice-Marshal. I want a meeting of the council of war set up immediately.” He turned to Azar. “Malika, with your permission, I’d like to appoint Lieutenant Colonel Najar as my chief of staff and promote him to full colonel. Major Saidi will remain as your aide-de-camp.”

“Permission granted, Marshal,” Azar said.

“Thank you, Malika. Colonel, work with Vice-Marshal Noshahr to set up a meeting of the war council. Major Haddad is hereby promoted to lieutenant colonel and will be in charge of security.” To Azar he said, “Malika, I would like you to attend the war council meeting and provide your input on resources and personnel we may be able to recruit from the streets of Tehran and the surrounding towns and villages. We’ll need every helping hand we can find to make this work.”

“Gladly, Marshal,” Azar said.

“Thank you, Malika,” Buzhazi said. “If you would, Malika, Vice-Marshal Noshahr, I’d like to show you something first before we proceed that could have a bearing on our planning. Colonel Najar, take over.”

Azar walked beside Buzhazi through the airport terminal to the exit. “Very dramatic gesture you made back there, Marshal,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you kneeling before anyone, let alone me.”

“I had to do something to outdo your grand gesture, Highness,” Buzhazi said. “Besides, if all this fancy froufrou court stuff is what your people know and expect, I guess I had to play along. You were really going to give up your throne and join my ragtag force of outlaws?”

“Did you mean what you said about surrendering your forces to me and swearing allegiance?” They smiled together, knowing each other’s reply. “Do you think we can pull it off, Hesarak?” she asked.

“Well, before today, I gave us no more than one chance in ten of winning,” Buzhazi said honestly. “Since then, things have improved greatly. I give us perhaps one chance in five now.”

“Really? A one hundred percent improvement so fast? We haven’t done anything yet except perhaps rearrange the deck chairs on a sinking ship! We have the same forces as before, the same resources — perhaps better organization and a little extra motivation. What else has changed other than our names, titles, and allegiances?”

They had walked outside and were escorted by guards to the nearby Iran Air hangar. After their identities were verified, Buzhazi stepped aside to let Azar pass him. “What else has changed?” he asked with a smile. “Let’s just say something from above has dropped into our laps.”

“What…?” Azar stepped into the hangar……and was immediately confronted by a ten-foot-tall humanoid robot, wearing some sort of cannon on his shoulders. The robot stepped closer to her with amazing speed and agility, examined them all for a moment, then stood at attention and shouted, “Detail, ten-hut!” in a loud computer-synthesized voice, then repeated it again in Farsi. It stepped aside…

…revealing that the hangar had two sleek, jet-black, massive American bombers inside. Azar recognized them as Air Force B-1 bombers, except the cockpit windows appeared sealed closed. The hangar floor was choked with vehicles, cargo containers of every size and description, and perhaps two hundred American airmen in utility uniforms standing at attention.

“As you were,” Azar said. The Americans, men and women alike, relaxed. Many came over to the newcomers, introducing themselves with salutes and handshakes.

A few moments later, a tall man in a strange dark gray all-body suit of armor that Buzhazi recognized as the American Tin Man battle system, without his helmet, came over, stood before Qagev and Buzhazi, and saluted. “General Buzhazi?” he said via his Tin Man suit’s on-board electronic translator. “Major Wayne Macomber, U.S. Air Force, detail commander.”

Buzhazi returned his salute, then shook hands. “Thank you, Major. May I present Her Highness, Azar Assiyeh Qagev…” He paused for effect, giving her a sly wink and nod, then added, “Queen of Persia.”

Macomber’s eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly enough, snapped to attention again, and saluted. “Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” She extended her hand, and he shook it, his armored hand dwarfing hers. “Never met a queen before.”

“I have met a Tin Man before, and I take great pleasure and comfort knowing you’re here,” Azar said in English so perfect, so American that it surprised him. “Welcome to Persia, Major.”

“Thanks.” He turned his hand and looked down at hers. “Hypoplastic thumb. Nice job fixing it. My youngest sister has it too. Bilateral?”

“Yes, Major,” Azar replied rather awkwardly. “I’m surprised at you. Most people I greet look at my hand and then look away, pretending not to notice.”

“Ignorance, that’s all, ma’am,” Macomber said. “Good for you not hiding it. My sister doesn’t hide it either. Freaks people out but that’s her plan. She still has a wicked tennis backhand.”

“You should see me on the rifle range, Major.”

The big commando smiled and nodded, his turn to be surprised. “Looking forward to that, ma’am.”

“Me too, Major.” She looked at another commando in a Tin Man battle armor system approach. “Hello, Sergeant Major Wohl,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“Thank you, Highness,” Wohl said. “Nice to see you too.” He glanced at Buzhazi. “I hope your new title doesn’t mean bad news about your parents.”

“I hope so too, Sergeant Major,” Azar said, “but the situation has forced my elevation, and so we proceed.” Wohl nodded in approval, but still gave Buzhazi a warning glare.

The ten-foot robot came over to them. Macomber motioned to her and said, “Ma’am, I’d like to introduce you to my second-in-command, Captain Charlie Turlock, U.S. Army Reserves, piloting a Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robot battle system she helped develop. She’s on patrol now so she can’t get out to greet you properly. Captain, meet Queen Azar Qagev of Persia.”

“Nice to meet you too, Captain,” Azar said, shaking hands with the giant, amazed at her delicate touch despite the size of her mechanical hand. “My minister of war and commander of my armed forces, Marshal Hesarak Buzhazi.”

“Nice to meet you, Highness, Marshal,” Charlie said from within the CID unit. Macomber’s eyes widened at Buzhazi’s new title. “All patrols reporting secure, sir. Excuse me, but I’ll continue my assignment.” The robot saluted and hurried off.

“Incredible, absolutely incredible,” Azar remarked. “Thank you so much for the extraordinary job you did in hunting down the Pasdaran’s mobile missiles. But now I’m confused. Did Marshal Buzhazi ask you to come to Tehran?”

“We had a little…trouble, you might say, with our accommodations in Turkey,” Macomber explained. “My commanding officer Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan got in contact with General — er, Marshal Buzhazi, and he offered to put us up until we get our situation straightened out.”

“McLanahan? The general up in the space station?”

“Let’s go somewhere and talk, shall we?” Macomber suggested. They moved through the hangar, greeting more airmen, and took a quick tour of the EB-1 Vampire bombers before entering an office just off the main hangar floor. Macomber spoke as if to thin air; a moment later, a telephone rang right beside him. He picked the receiver up and handed it to Azar. “It’s for you, Highness.”

Azar took the phone, trying to act like impromptu and mysterious phone calls for her were completely normal. “This is Queen Azar Assiyeh Qagev of Persia,” she said in English. “Who is this, please?”

“Highness, this is Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan. How are you tonight?”

“I’m well, General,” she responded, trying to sound official and coherent even though her senses were swimming trying to keep up with the amazing otherworldly technology she was being exposed to here at breakneck speed. “We were just talking about you.”

“I was listening in — hope you don’t mind,” Patrick said. “We keep a close eye on our troops all around the world.”

“I understand,” Azar said. “I hope you are recovered from your space flight injuries. Are you in Persia?”

“No, right now I’m over southern Chile, aboard Armstrong Space Station,” Patrick said. “Highness, I was in a little bit of trouble, and I called on General Buzhazi for help. I apologize for not informing you first, but time was of the essence.”

“You and your forces are welcome forever and always in Persia, General,” Azar said. “You are a hero and champion to all free Persians, and we consider you our brother-in-arms. But perhaps you can explain what’s going on.”

“We believe Russia has moved military forces into Iran and is working with the theocratic regime to exert influence in the region.”

“Well of course they have, General,” Azar said matter-of-factly. “Don’t tell me that’s a surprise to you?” His rather embarrassed pause gave her all the answer she needed. “The Russians have pledged substantial military and economic assistance over the years to the theocratic regime in exchange for presence and to put pressure on them to stop supporting anti-Russian separatist movements inside the Russian Federation and its near abroad, such as in Kosovo, Albania, and Romania. Russia has enjoyed its most-favored-nation status for decades.”

“We knew that Russia was using Iran along with the conflict in Iraq to distract the United States from its other activities around its periphery,” Patrick said, “but we didn’t know their involvement was so widely known and accepted.”

“The aid Iran has received from the Russians is reportedly greater than what the United States gives any other nation in the region except perhaps Israel,” Azar said. “That was very important not only to keep the theocrats in power but to sustain the Iranian people. Unfortunately a lot of that aid went to the Revolutionary Guards Corps and their drastic arms buildup, which they used to crack down on any dissent in our country. But has something else changed recently? Is Russia playing a different game?”

“We believe the Russians have brought a new weapon, a powerful mobile anti-spacecraft laser, into Iran and have used it to down one of our spacecraft,” Patrick said. “Major Macomber, Captain Turlock, and Sergeant Major Wohl survived such an attack.”

“You mean, one of the spaceplanes I’ve heard so much about?” Azar asked. “They were riding in one in space when it was hit by this laser?”

“Yes, Highness. I would like assistance to hunt down this Russian weapon and neutralize it.”

“I don’t think that’ll be difficult at all,” Azar said. She handed the phone to Buzhazi, who put it on a speaker and asked Major Haddad to translate for him.

“Marshal Buzhazi?”

“Greetings, General McLanahan,” Buzhazi said through Haddad.

“Hello, Marshal. You got a promotion, I see.”

“And I judge by your unexpected call, the sudden appearance of such a large force on my doorstep, and the disturbing lack of information from your military or foreign ministries, that your career has not enjoyed similar success,” Buzhazi said. “But you helped me when I was on the run, and I was hoping to one day do the same for you. So. The Russians have shot down your spaceplane?”

“Can you help us find that laser, Buzhazi?”

“Of course. I am sure we can find it quickly, if my men do not already know where it is.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“General, we do not automatically distrust the Russians like you do — in fact, we have more reasons to distrust the Americans,” Buzhazi said. “We are neighbors with Russia, and our borders have been safe and secure for decades; we have purchased many weapons and received substantial military, economic, industrial, and trade assistance from Russia, which was urgently important to us during all the years of the trade embargo with the West; we even still have a mutual defense treaty that is in full force and effect.”

“So you’re saying that you have been working with the Russians, Marshal,” Patrick asked with surprise, “including supplying them with information on our activities in Iran?”

“General McLanahan, sometimes the depth of the naïveté of the Americans astounds me,” Buzhazi said. “We have to live here; you merely influence events here for America’s national interests, sometimes from the relative comfort of a battle staff room — or a space station. Of course we supply Russia with information, just as we supply you with information on Russia’s activities and assist you when you run into…domestic political problems, shall we say?” Again, no response from Patrick.

“We all have our own necessities, pursuits, and agendas,” Buzhazi went on. “We hope such cooperation enriches us all and is mutually beneficial, but in the end it is our own objectives that must be attended to first, no?” Again, silence. “General McLanahan? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“I am sorry to have upset or disillusioned you, General,” Buzhazi said. “You did save my life and help me defeat the Pasdaran in Qom and Tehran, and for that I would help you until the last of my days. All you had to do was ask. But you should not be so surprised to learn that I would extend similar courtesies to any other country that helps my cause, including your adversaries. So. You wish to locate this Russian mobile laser system? Very well. I shall contact you immediately through Major Macomber when I have its precise location. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes, it is, Marshal,” Patrick said. “Thank you. And what of my men there in Tehran?”

Buzhazi turned to Azar and spoke in low tones for a few moments; then: “The queen wishes to extend all possible aid and comfort to you and your men. In return, she hopes you will assist us when the time comes.”

“So do I have to worry about a Russian attack on that location, Buzhazi?” Patrick asked.

“Patrick, I think I have made myself plain to you,” Buzhazi said through his translator. “I hope you are not one of those idealistic men who believe that we help each other because we believe it is the right or just thing to do, or because one side is inherently good and the other is evil. You brought your forces to Tehran for reasons that are not entirely clear to me yet, but I know that we did not invite you. We will learn all soon, God willing. Until then, I will do what I must for our nation and our survival. You will do what you must for your men, your cause, and yourself. Hopefully all those things are mutually beneficial.” And he hung up the phone without even a departing salutation.

“Everything okay, sir?” Macomber asked via his subcutaneous transceiver after he had excused himself from Buzhazi and Azar.

“Major, I think we need to trust Buzhazi, but I just can’t make myself do it,” Patrick admitted. “He may be a patriot, but he’s first and foremost a survivor. When he was chief of staff and commander of the Pasdaran, he was fully prepared to sink an American aircraft carrier and kill thousands of sailors just to prove how tough he thought he was. I think he wants to get rid of the theocracy and the Pasdaran, but I think he’ll do anything he needs to do — include screwing us both — to survive. You’re going to have to make the call.”

“Yes, sir,” Macomber said. “I’ll let you know.”

“Well, Major?” Buzhazi asked via the electronic translator when Macomber returned. “What does your commanding officer say? Does he trust me yet?”

“No, sir, he doesn’t,” Macomber said.

“So. What shall we do?”

Macomber thought for a moment; then: “We take a little ride, Marshal.”