Shadow Command

CHAPTER TEN

The city of Mashhad—“City of Martyrs” in English — in northeastern Iran was the second-largest city in Iran and, as the location of the shrine of the eighth imam, Reza, it was the second-largest Shiite holy city in the world and second only to Qom in importance. Over twenty million pilgrims visited the Imam Reza shrine every year, making it as noteworthy and spiritual as the Haji, the pilgrimage to Mecca. Located in a valley between the Kuh-e-Ma’juni and Azhdar-Kuh mountain ranges, the area had brutally cold winters but was pleasant most of the rest of the year.

Located in the hinterlands of Iran, Mashhad held relatively little military or strategic importance until the rise of the Taliban regime in Afghanistan in the 1980s. Fearing that the Taliban would try to export its brand of Islam westward, Mashhad was turned into a counterinsurgency stronghold, with the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps operating several strike teams, intelligence units, counterinsurgency fighter-bomber and helicopter assault and attack units from Imam Reza International Airport.

When Hesarak Buzhazi’s military coup hit, Mashhad’s importance quickly grew even stronger. The remnants of the Revolutionary Guards Corps was chased all the way from Tehran to Mashhad. However, Buzhazi barely had the resources to maintain his tenuous hold on the capital, so he had no choice but to let the survivors flee without mounting a determined effort to root out the commanders. With the surviving Revolutionary Guards Corps commanders freely moving about the city, and with a very large influx of Shiite pilgrims that continued almost unabated even during the growing violence, the Pasdaran had lots of recruits to choose from in Mashhad. From mosques, the marketplaces and malls, and from every street corner, the call to jihad against Buzhazi and the Qagev pretenders went far and wide and quickly spread.

Spurred on by the powerful spiritual aura of the city and the entrenched power of the Revolutionary Guards Corps, acting Iranian president, chief of the Council of Guardians, and senior member of the Assembly of Experts Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz was emboldened to return from exile in Turkmenistan, where he had been living under the protection of the Russian government. At first there was talk of all of the eastern provinces of Iran splitting from the rest of the country, with Mashhad as the new capital, but the instability of the coup and the failure of Buzhazi and the Qagevs to form a government postponed such discussions. Perhaps all Mohtaz had to do was encourage the faithful to jihad, continue to raise money to fund his insurgency, and wait — Tehran might drop right back into his hands soon enough all by itself.

Three full divisions of the Revolutionary Guards Corps, over one hundred thousand strong, were based in and around Mashhad, nearly the entire surviving complement of frontline elite troops. Most of the Pasdaran forces, two divisions, were infantry, including two mechanized infantry brigades. There was one aviation brigade with counterinsurgency aircraft, attack and assault helicopters, transports, and air defense battalions; one armored brigade with light tanks, artillery, and mortar battalions; and one special operations and intelligence brigade that conducted demolition, assassination, espionage, surveillance, interrogation, and specialized communications missions such as propaganda broadcasts. In addition, another thirty thousand al-Quds paramilitary forces were deployed within the city itself, acting as spies and informers for the Pasdaran and theocratic government-in-exile.

The Revolutionary Guards Corps’ headquarters and strategic center of gravity was Imam Reza International Airport, situated just five miles south of the Imam Reza shrine. However, all of the tactical military units at the airport were relocated to make room for a new arrival: an S-300OMU1 Favorit air defense regiment from the Russian Federation.

The S-300 strategic air defense system was considered one of the finest in the world, equal to the American PAC-3 Patriot missile system. An S-300 battery consisted of a long-range three-dimensional scanning acquisition radar, a target engagement and missile guidance radar, and twelve trailers each loaded with four missiles, along with maintenance, crew support, and security vehicles. One such battery was set up at the airport, with another northwest and a third positioned west of the city. The S-300 missile was effective against targets flying as low as thirty feet aboveground, as high as one hundred thousand feet, as fast as Mach 3, as far out as one hundred and twenty miles, and deadly against even low-flying cruise missiles and theater ballistic missiles.

The S-300s were augmented by the Tor-M1 air defense system, which were tracked armored vehicles that fired eight high-speed, short-range radar-guided anti-aircraft missiles from vertical launch tubes. The Tor-M1 was designed to protect mobile headquarters vehicles, vehicle marshaling areas, refueling areas, and ammunition dumps from attack helicopters, unmanned aerial vehicles, and low-flying subsonic tactical bombers. Although the Tor-M1 had a crew of three, it was designed to be a “set and forget” system, allowing for fully autonomous engagements, or it could be tied into the S-300’s fire control system to form an integrated air defense system. Together they formed an almost impenetrable shield around Mashhad.

That day, Mashhad was one of the most heavily defended cities on planet Earth…and it was about to be put to the test.

About two hours before dawn, the first alert was issued from the long-range air defense radar at S-300 battery number two, located thirty miles northwest of Mashhad: “Alarm, alarm, alarm, this is Syeveer battery, high-speed low-altitude target inbound, bearing two-eight-zero, range one-fifty, velocity nine-six-five, altitude nine-zero.”

“Syeveer, this is Tsentr, acknowledged,” the tactical action officer, Captain Sokolov, responded. His tactical display showed three high-speed, low-altitude targets heading toward Mashhad. “Contact, sir,” he reported to the regimental commander. “Looks like a terrain-following bomb run, right where you thought they’d be.”

“Completely predictable,” Colonel Kundrin, the air defense regimental commander, said confidently. As if sensing that something might happen that morning, he had been dressed and at his post in the regimental air defense command center on the top floor of the administration building at Reza International hours earlier. “The planes may change over the years, but the tactics remain the same. We placed that battery in perfect position — the bomber is trying to terrain-mask down the valley, but the mountains funnel right down to where we placed that battery. A fatal flaw in their mission planning. He can’t continue straight ahead, and if he pops up over the ridges he’ll be exposing himself even more.”

“Too fast and too low for a B-2 stealth bomber — this must be a B-1 bomber,” Sokolov surmised. “And they haven’t launched their hypersonic cruise missiles either.”

“I don’t think they have any stealth bombers left after President Gryzlov and General Darzov expertly pounded their bases and caught the fools flat-footed on the ground,” Kundrin said. “Besides, this is not the American air force we’re up against — it’s just McLanahan, the general that went crazy up in space. He’s probably fired all his missiles already. Tell Syeveer to engage at optimal range, and be sure to watch for a trailing aircraft. If he’s got more than one bomber, he’ll either be in close trail or attacking from a different axis. I don’t want anyone to slip inside.”

Sokolov relayed the order. “Order to engage confirmed, sir, fifteen seconds to go…wait one! Sir, Zapat battery reports new hostile target inbound, bearing two-five-zero, range one hundred, altitude one hundred, speed eight-seventy and increasing!” Zapat was the westernmost battery, situated fifty miles west of Mashhad.

“I knew it! Predictable, all too predictable,” Kundrin said happily. “Looks like we placed that number three battery in a perfect place too — covering the Binalud ridgeline west of the city. If I were to plan an attack on the airport, I’d hug the ground along the ridge, then pop around the end of the ridge and launch missiles right at rollout. That’s exactly what McLanahan did — and we were in exactly the right spot to nail him! He’ll have his bomb doors open and his radar signature will be massive! Tell Zapat to engage when ready!”

Each battery had three missile trailers, separated by several miles but linked to each other via microwave datalink, each carrying four 48N6 vertical-launch interceptor missiles which were already raised to launch position. Once the order to attack was given and the proper attack mode set — launch at optimal range — the engagement was virtually automatic. As soon as the target came within range, a nitrogen gas catapult pushed the missile out of the launch tube to a height of about thirty feet and the rocket motor ignited, accelerating the missile to greater-than-a-mile-per-second velocity in less than twelve seconds. Three seconds later, a second missile automatically fired to assure a kill. The S-300’s missiles climbed to an altitude of only twenty thousand feet, guided to a predicted intercept point.

“Status?” the regimental commander asked.

“Batteries engaging targets, four missiles in the air,” Sokolov reported. “Targets making only minimal evasive maneuvers and little jamming. Solid lock-on.”

“The last act of overconfidence,” Kundrin said. “They have no room to maneuver in any case. Too bad they’re unmanned aircraft, eh, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. I’m concerned about those T-waves, or whatever they hit our fighter with.”

“We’ll see in a moment, won’t we?”

“Missiles tracking perfectly…targets making slightly more aggressive maneuvers…channel-hop away from jamming, still locked on…three…two…one…now.”

There were no other reports from the tactical action officer, which confused the regimental commander. “TAO, report!”

“Sir…sir, both missiles reporting ground contact!” Sokolov said in a low, confused voice. “Negative warhead detonation. Complete miss!”

“Release batteries and launch again!” Kundrin shouted. “Target range and bearing?”

“Second volley processing…missile three launched…missile four launched,” Sokolov said. “Target range nine-zero, bearing steady at two-eight-zero.”

“What of battery three? Status?”

“Battery three engagement…” And then his voice cut off with a sharp intake of breath.

Kundrin flew out of his seat and stared at the display. It was unbelievable…“They missed?” he exclaimed. “Another ground impact?”

“Battery three re-engaging…missile three launch…missile four…”

“Say range and bearing on battery three’s target?”

“Range eight-zero, bearing steady at two-five-zero.”

“That…that doesn’t make sense,” Kundrin said. “Both target bearings did not change even though they fell under attack? Something’s not—”

“Sir, batteries two and three second-engagement missiles show ground impact as well!” Sokolov said. “All engagements missed! Battery two re-engaging. Battery three—”

“Negative! All batteries tight!” Kundrin shouted. “Inhibit auto engage!”

“Repeat that last, sir?”

“I said, all batteries tight, inhibit auto engagement!” Kundrin shouted. “We’re being meaconed!”

“Meaconed? You mean, jammed, sir?”

“They’re broadcasting false targets on our displays and making us fire at ghosts,” Kundrin said.

“But we have full countermeasures and anti-jam algorithms in place, sir,” Sokolov said. “Our systems are in perfect working order.”

“We’re not being jammed, dammit,” Kundrin said. “Something’s inside our system. Our computers believe they are processing actual targets.”

The command network phone rang; only the regimental commander could answer it. “Tsentr.”

“This is Rayetka.” It was General Andrei Darzov himself, calling from Moscow. “We copied your notification of an attack response, but now we see you have canceled all engagements. Why?”

“Sir, I think we’re being meaconed — we’re reacting to false targets generated by our own sensors,” Kundrin said. “I’ve inhibited automatic responses until…”

“Sir, battery two S-300 and Tor units receiving automatic engagement commands and are preparing to launch!” Sokolov shouted.

“I gave no such orders!” Kundrin shouted. “Countermand those orders! All batteries tight!”

“Tsentr, are you positive those are false targets?” Darzov asked.

“Every missile launched so far has hit the ground,” Kundrin said. “Not one of our units has reported visual, optronic, or noise contact even though the targets are at very low altitude.”

“S-300 battery two launching against new multiple inbound high-speed targets!” Sokolov reported. He ran over and pushed the communications officer out of the way, slapping on his headset. “Syeveer and Zapat batteries, this is Tsentr TAO, batteries tight, repeat, batteries tight! Ignore the computer’s indications!” He hurriedly made out a date-time code for authentication — but as he did so, he watched as still more S-300 and Tor-M1 units launched missiles. “All units, this is Tsentr TAO, stop launch! Repeat, stop launch!”

“Stop those damned units from launching, Captain, now!” Kundrin shouted. There were now more targets appearing on the display — flying in exactly the same tracks, speed, altitude, and bearing as the first sets of targets! Soon battery one, the S-300 company at Reza International Airport, was beginning to launch missiles. “Rayetka, this is Tsentr, we’re picking up more inbound hostile targets, but they’re flying the exact same speed, altitude, and track as the first hostiles! Recommend we stop all responses and go to standby on all sensors. We’re being spoofed, I’m positive.”

There was a long pause, with the command net crackling and popping from the shifting encryption decoding routines; then: “Tsentr, this is Rayetka, deploy Fanar. Repeat, deploy Fanar. Stand by for engagement authentication.”

“Repeat that last, Rayetka?” Kundrin asked. For God’s sake, the regimental commander cried to himself, I just recommended to the guy that we shut everything down — now Darzo wants to roll out the biggest gun and the biggest sensor they had! “Repeat, Rayetka?”

“I said, deploy Fanar and stand by for engagement authentication,” the order came back. It was followed by an authentication code.

“I copy, Rayetka, moving Fanar to firing position, standing by for engagement authentication.” Darzov must be getting desperate, Kundrin thought. Fanar, the anti-spacecraft laser, was probably their last chance. The anti-aircraft artillery units scattered around Mashhad had no chance against fast, low-flying bombers. He picked up his regiment’s command network phone: “Security, this is Tsentr, move Fanar to firing position and notify the crew to prepare to engage enemy aircraft.” He gave the security commander an authentication code to move the trucks.

“Sir, we managed to get all units to respond to a weapons-tight order,” Sokolov said. “We’re down to twenty percent primary rounds available.”

“Twenty percent!” Shit, they wasted eighty percent of their missiles on ghosts! “They had better be reloading, dammit!”

“We’re in the process of reloading now, sir,” Sokolov went on. “The Tor-M1 units will be done within fifteen minutes, and the S-300 units will be done before the hour.”

“Get on it. The real attack may be happening at any moment. And make sure they do not respond to any more targets unless they have optronic verification!” Kundrin rushed to the exit, down the corridor, out the emergency exit, and up to the roof of the administration building. From there, using night-vision binoculars, he could see the progress of the security units.

The four Fanar trucks were just emerging from their hiding places. They had been hidden in a tunnel that ran under the runways which allowed vehicles to go from one side of the airport to another without going all the way around the runways. They were headed for a firefighting training pad on the north side of the runways, which had some old fuel tanks arranged to look like an airliner which could be filled with waste jet fuel and ignited to simulate a crashed airliner. The command vehicle was just now unfolding the huge electronically scanned radar antenna and datalink mast, which would allow the radar to tie into the S-300 fire control network.

Kundrin’s secure portable radio crackled to life: “Tsentr, this is Rayetka,” Darzov spoke. “Status.”

“Fanar deployment under way, sir,” Kundrin replied.

“Tsentr, this is the TAO,” Sokolov radioed.

“Stand by, TAO,” Kundrin said. “I’m talking to Rayetka.”

“They are setting up on the southeast pad as directed?” Darzov asked.

Southeast pad? There was a fighter alert pad on the southeast side, but it was still in use by Revolutionary Guards Corps tactical attack helicopters and also as secure parking for the Russian transports. They had never briefed using it to employ the anti-spacecraft laser. “Negative, sir, we’re using the north firefighting training pad, as briefed.”

“Acknowledged,” Darzov said. “Proceed.”

Moments later, the TAO burst through the door to the roof observation post. “Stop, sir!” he shouted.

“What in hell is going on, Sokolov? What are you doing up here?”

“The authentication from Rayetka — it was not valid!” Sokolov said. “The order to deploy Fanar was not valid!”

“What?” A dull chill ran through Kundrin’s head. He had assumed that because the person on the radio used the proper code name and was on the proper encrypted frequency that he was who he said he was and gave a valid order — he didn’t wait to see if the authentication code checked…

…and he realized that he had just told whoever it was on the other end of that channel exactly where Fanar was located!”

He frantically raised his radio to his lips: “Security, this is Tsentr, cancel deployment, get those trucks back in hiding!” he shouted. “Repeat, get them into—!”

But at that exact moment there was a flash of light, and milliseconds later an impossibly thunderous explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. Kundrin and Sokolov were blown off their feet by the first concussion, and they frantically crawled away as crashing waves of raw heat roiled over them. They could do nothing but curl up into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after the other.

It seemed to last an entire hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled over to the shattered front of the administration building and peered out across the runways. The entire area north of the runways was on fire, centered on the firefighting training pad. The fire on the pad itself — obviously the burning chemicals used by the laser — seemed so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The alert aircraft parking area to the southeast had been hit too — every helicopter and transport was on fire.

Then they heard them, and in the brilliant reflection of the fires they soon saw them too, as plainly as if in daytime: a pair of American B-1 bombers, flying right down the runway. They obviously knew that all of the air defense units had been ordered to shut down their systems and not open fire. The first one wagged its wings as it passed by the administration building, and the second actually did an aileron roll, flying less than two hundred feet aboveground. When they finished their little airshow spectacle, they ignited afterburners, sped off into the night sky, and were soon out of sight.

Stacy Anne Barbeau loved casinos, and she spent quite a bit of time in them on the Mississippi River in Louisiana and on the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But this was the first time in many years that she had been in a big Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. They were much more than gambling halls now — they were spectacular destinations, a sensory bombardment not only of lights, colors, and sounds, but of scenery, landscaping, architecture, and art that was truly amazing. The last time she was here, the decorations seemed cheesy and campy, almost Disneyesque. Not anymore. It was definitely Las Vegas elegant — bright, a little gaudy, loud, and extravagant, but it was elegant nonetheless.

“You know what I love the most about these places, darlin’—you can be completely anonymous so easily, even dressed like this,” Barbeau said to her assistant Colleen Morna as they strode from the hotel elevators through the wide, sweeping hallway and across the rich red carpeting of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She was wearing a silvery cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but except for the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she was just another part of the scenery. “So where is ‘Playgirl’?”

“Private poker room in the back,” Morna said. She produced what appeared to be a thick ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau’s dress. “This is all you need to get in.”

“It’s ugly. Do I have to wear it?”

“Yes. It’s an identification and tracking transponder — an RFID, or radio-frequency identification tag,” Morna said. “They’ve been tracking us ever since I picked it up a half hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; it sends information to all the cashiers, croupiers, maître d’s, security, hotel staff, and even to the slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and — more importantly to them, I’m sure — how much is left in your account. The security staff watches you with their cameras and automatically compares your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you’re on the property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they’d send a couple hospitality guys after you to steer you in the right direction.”

“I like the sound of that—‘hospitality guys,’” Barbeau cooed. “I don’t much like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods, though.”

“Well, keep it with you, because it’s your room key, access to your line of credit, your charge card, and your admission pass to all the shows and VIP rooms — again, you don’t need to know a thing because these guys will escort you everywhere you want to go. Anywhere.”

“But they don’t know who I am, do they?”

“I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator,” Morna said, “but this is Vegas — here, you are whoever you want to be. Tonight you’re Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecommunications and oil money, married but here alone.”

“Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?” she deadpanned. Morna rolled her eyes. “Never mind. So how did I get into this private poker room if I’m not who I say I am?”

“A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to start,” Morna said.

“You used the billing codes from the White House for this trip for a line of credit in the casino? Smart girl.”

“It’s just to get us in the door, Senator — don’t actually use any of it, or the sergeant at arms will crucify you,” Morna said.

“Oh, pish on him — he’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Barbeau said.

Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was kidding. Washington careers were ended by a lot less. “Everything is all set. The management is as attentive as they are discreet. They’ll take good care of you. I’ll be in the room next door to yours if you need me, and I’ve got a casino employee bought and paid for that will tell me exactly where you are at all times.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need a wingman tonight, darlin’,” Barbeau said in her best man-slaying voice. “Captain Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble will go down as easy as catching catfish in a barrel.”

“What do you plan to do, Senator?”

“I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to get ahead in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: Don’t cross a United States senator,” she said confidently. She stuck out her chest and moved the mink aside. “I’ll show him a couple advantages of pleasing me instead of opposing me. You’re sure he’s here?”

“He checked in last night and has been playing poker all day long,” Morna said. “He’s doing pretty well too — he’s up a little.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure he’s up, all right,” Barbeau said. “Trust me.”

“I know where his suite is — it’s right down the hall from ours — and if he takes you there my guy will tell me,” Morna went on.

“Any other ladies with him?”

“Just a few that have stopped by briefly at the table — he hasn’t invited any of them to his room.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Barbeau said. “Don’t wait up, sugar.”

Exactly as Colleen said, the casino staff knew she was coming without a word being spoken. As Barbeau left the main casino floor and began walking toward the ornate gold entryway of the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a communications earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded, and said, “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” as she passed by.

As she approached the doors she was met by a tall, good-looking man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo suit and skirt, carrying a beverage tray. “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” the man said. “My name is Martin, and this is Jesse, who will be your attendant for the rest of the evening.”

“Why thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said in her best Southern accent. “I’m quite taken by this extraordinary level of attention.”

“Our goal is to assist you in any way possible to have the best evening while a guest at the hotel,” Martin said. “Our motto is ‘Anything at All,’ and I will be here to be sure all your desires are met tonight.” The waitress handed her the glass. “Southern Comfort and lime, I believe?”

“Exactly right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse.”

“My job is to make you comfortable, get any dinner or show reservations you may like, get you a seat at any gaming table you’d prefer, and make any introductions while you’re in the private hall. If there’s anything at all you’d like—anything at all — please do not hesitate to tell Jesse or myself.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said, “but I think I’d like to just…you know, prowl around a little bit to get comfortable. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Whenever you need anything, just motion to us. You don’t have to look for us — we’ll be looking out for you.”

It was a very secure feeling, Barbeau thought, to know that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and began to stroll around the room. It was plush and ornate without being too ostentatious; there was just a hint of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. A room in the back had several sports games on huge wide-screen flat-panel monitors, with women who definitely didn’t look like spouses hanging onto the shoulders of the spectators — male and female alike.

What happens in this place, Stacy thought as she took a sip of her drink, definitely stays in this place.

After a short hunt she finally found him, at a card table in the back: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick-link gold chain around his neck, an old-style metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon Velcro watchband on the other wrist with its protective watch flap closed. He had an impressive stack of chips in front of him, and only two players and the dealer at the table with him — and the other players definitely looked perturbed, their chip stacks much lower than his, as if they were frustrated at being beat by this young punk. One of the other players had a cigarette in an ashtray beside him; Noble had an ashtray beside him too, but it was clean and empty.

Now that she saw him in his “native habitat,” she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular — a naturally toned body without having to do a lot of weight lifting, not like McLanahan’s chunky muscularity. His hair was short and naturally teased, without having to mousse it, which had to be the most unmanly thing Stacy had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and easy, although she noticed his quick eyes when cards and chips started flying across the table in front of him. He certainly didn’t miss much…

…and at that moment his eyes rested on her…and he didn’t miss anything there, either. He smiled that mischievous naughty-boy smile, and his quick eyes danced, and she instantly felt herself being visually undressed once more — then, just as quickly, his attention was back to his game.

It was not too long afterward that Barbeau saw Martin supervising the dealer counting up Noble’s winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the host responded, and soon he sauntered over to her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. “Pardon me, Miss Gilliam,” he said, speaking very formally but with that same mischievous smile, “but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were, and I thought I’d introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Barbeau sipped her drink but eyed him over the rim of the glass, making him wait while she surveyed him. He simply stood before her patiently with that playful boyish smile on his face, standing casually but provocatively as well, as if he had no doubt that she would invite him to sit down. Well, shit, she thought, the guy flies hypersonic spaceplanes for a living — a mere woman isn’t going to rattle him. “Of course not, Mr. Noble. Would you care to sit down?” Barbeau responded just as formally, enjoying playing the game of being strangers.

“Thank you, I would.” He took a chair beside her, set his drink down, then leaned toward her. “Senator Barbeau? Is that you?”

“Captain Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble,” she said in response. “Fancy meeting you here, sir.”

“Fancy nothing, Senator. Did you track me down here?”

“I don’t know whatever you mean, Captain,” Barbeau said. “The assistant hotel manager here happens to be a friend of mine, and he invited me to this wonderful VIP room when I came to town.” She looked him over once again. “Where’s your RFID tag, Captain?”

“I don’t wear those things — I like tipping in cash and I can unlock my own room door without Big Brother doing it for me.”

“I think it’s fun, being surveilled all the time. Makes me feel very secure.”

“You’ll get tired of it,” he said moodily. “You’re here to shut down Dreamland, aren’t you, Senator?”

“I’m here to talk with the SEALs who tried to assault the place, speak with General Luger about his actions, and report to the President,” she replied.

“Then why are you here? Are you spying on me?”

“Why, Captain Noble, you sound like a man with something to hide,” Barbeau said. “But I am surprised, quite frankly, to find a young Air Force captain who makes less than seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes here in a VIP gambling room, where the price of admission is usually a fifty-thousand-dollar line of credit with the casino, with such a large stack of chips in front of him.”

“Playing poker for money is not against Air Force regulations, Senator. Neither is spending a good deal of my bachelor take-home pay on playing cards. Do you investigate guys who spend that much on cars or cameras?”

“I don’t know of anyone who’s been blackmailed by bookies or loan sharks because they buy camera gear,” Barbeau said. “Being a habitual gambler certainly does look…how shall I say it, unseemly? For someone in such a highly critical job as yours, being such a gambling devotee — or perhaps even a gambling addict? — might look very suspicious to some.”

“I’m not addicted to gambling,” Boomer said defensively. The senator’s eyes twinkled — she knew she had hit a nerve. “But why this charade, Senator? Why this campaign to destroy the program? You’re opposed to the Black Stallion and the space station — fine. Why take the political opposition so personally?”

“I’m not an opponent of the XR-A9 project, Captain,” Barbeau said, sipping her drink. “I think it’s a remarkable piece of technology. But the space station has many very powerful opponents.”

“Like Gardner.”

“Many opponents,” Barbeau repeated. “But some of the technology you use is of great interest to me, including the Black Stallion.”

“Not to mention scoring some points with folks in the White House and dozens of defense contractors, too.”

“Don’t try to play politics with me, Captain — my family invented the game, and I learned from the best,” Barbeau said.

“I see that. You’re more than willing to destroy military careers for your own political gain.”

“You mean General McLanahan? Perfect example of a smart, dedicated guy wading into political waters that were way over his head,” she said dimissively, taking another sip. She was finally starting to feel relaxed, immersed in an atmosphere in which she was very comfortable…no, not just comfortable: one in which she was in control. McLanahan had destroyed himself, and because Hunter Noble cared about him, he was going to go down next.

Captain Hunter Noble was pretty, and obviously smart and talented, but this was business, and he would become just another one of her victims…after she had a little fun with him!

“He’ll come out okay — as long as he backs off and lets me tell the White House what is best for the Air Force,” Barbeau went on casually. “McLanahan’s a war hero, for God’s sake — everybody knows that. Very few people know what happened in Dreamland and Turkey.” She snapped her fingers with a wave of her wrist. “It can be swept under the rug like that. With my help and with his maximum cooperation, he’ll get off with a general court-martial and loss of his pension. But then he can get on with his life.”

“Otherwise, you’ll let him rot in prison.”

Stacy Anne Barbeau leaned forward, giving him a good look at her bosom underneath her silvery low-cut neckline. “I’m not here to make anyone miserable, Captain — least of all you,” she said. “The truth is, I would like your help.”

“My help?”

“Next to McLanahan, you’re the most influential person attached to the space project,” she said. “The general is done for if what he’s done in Dreamland and in Turkey gets leaked out. I don’t think he’ll cooperate with me. That leaves you.”

“What is this, a threat? You’re going to try to destroy me too?”

“I don’t want to attack you, Captain,” she said in a low voice. She looked him straight in the eye. “To be honest, I’m quite taken by you.” She saw the look of surprise in his face and knew she had him by the balls. “I’ve been attracted to you since I first saw you in the Oval Office, and when I saw you here, looking at me like you were—”

“I wasn’t looking at you,” he said defensively, not too convincingly.

“Oh yes you were, Hunter. I felt it. You did too.” He swallowed but said nothing. “What I’m trying to say, Hunter, is that I can take your career in a whole new direction if you’d let me. All you need to do is let me show you what I can do for you.”

“My career is just fine.”

“In the Air Force? That’s fine for eggheads and Neanderthals, but not for you. You’re smart, but you’re savvy and in control. Those are special qualities. They will get suppressed in the military under layers upon layers of old-school bullshit and endless, faceless bureaucracy — not to mention the possibility of dying in combat or up in space, flying a jet built by the lowest bidder.

“I’m offering you a step out of that hellish cattle-call existence, Hunter,” Barbeau went on in a low voice, pumping as much sincerity into it as she could. “How do you think other men and women rise above corporate Pentagon mediocrity and advance their futures?”

“The general did it by being dedicated to the mission and his fellow crewmembers.”

“McLanahan did it by being Kevin Martindale’s whipping boy,” Barbeau said firmly. “If he died in any of those missions he sent him on, Martindale would have just found another mindless robot to activate. Is that what you want? Do you just want to be McLanahan’s sacrificial lamb?” Again, Boomer didn’t reply — she could see the wheels of doubt churning in his head. “So who’s looking out for you, Hunter? McLanahan won’t be in a position to do it. Even if he doesn’t go to prison, he’ll have a federal conviction and a less-than-honorable discharge on his record. You’ll wither away too out there if you blindly follow idealistic men like McLanahan.”

He didn’t say it, but she knew what he was asking himself: How do I get out of this? He was putty in her hands, ready for the next step. “Come with me, Hunter,” she said. “I’ll show you how to rise above the swamp that McLanahan has stuck you in. I’ll show you the real world, the one outside of spaceplanes and shadowy missions. With my help, you can dominate the real world. Just let me show you the way.”

“And what do I need to do?”

She looked deeply in his eyes, took a deep breath, then gently placed a hand on his left thigh. “Just trust me,” she said. “Place yourself in my hands. Do what I tell you, and I’ll take you to places, introduce you to the most influential people who really want to hear what you have to say, and take you through the real corridors of power. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” She could feel those rock-hard thighs jump at her touch, and couldn’t wait for those long legs to straddle her. He was practically gasping for air like a marathoner at the end of a race. “Let’s go.”

He stood, and she smiled and took his hand as he helped her to her feet. He’s mine, she thought…mine.

She felt a little dizzy as she got to her feet — one glass of whiskey, after a half day of skipping meals preparing for this trip, was doing her in. After she dealt with Hunter Noble, she vowed to treat herself and Colleen to a late-night supper in the suite and toast her success. First Gardner, then McLanahan, and now this studly hard-body military astronaut.

“May I help you in any way, Miss Gilliam?” her waitress Jesse asked, appearing as if out of nowhere. She reached out as if to help steady her.

“No thank you, Jesse, I’m fine,” Barbeau said. She watched as Martin came over and looked as if he was going to physically restrain Noble, who was discreetly following her, but she raised a hand. “Mr. Noble and I are going to take a walk together,” she said. “Thank you, Martin.”

“If you need anything, Miss Gilliam, just pick up a phone or give a signal — we’ll be right there,” Martin said.

“Thank you so much. I’m having a wonderful time,” Barbeau said gaily. She tipped him fifty dollars, then headed for the door. Hunter opened the door for her; Martin took the door from him, and she noticed him giving Noble a stern warning glare…and he didn’t tip him either. Well, she thought, maybe “Playgirl’s” reputation was wearing a bit thin in here. That would be another weakness of his to explore if he didn’t cooperate.

They walked together without talking until reaching the elevator, and then she took him by his slender waist, pulled him closer, and kissed him deeply. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I first saw you,” she said, pressing herself tightly against him. He whispered something in return, but the music in the elevator seemed a little loud, and she couldn’t hear him.

At their floor they were met by a floor attendant. “Welcome, Mr. Noble, Miss Gilliam,” she said brightly, obviously notified by the ever-present hotel security system of their arrival. “Is there anything I can do for you tonight? Anything at all?”

“No, I’ve got this one all taken care of myself,” Barbeau heard herself say, reaching down between his legs and stroking him. “But if you’d care to join us a little later, sugar, that’d be fine, just fine.” And then she heard herself giggle. Did she just giggle? That Southern Comfort was hitting her harder than she thought. Never party on an empty stomach, she reminded herself.

As she passed Colleen’s room she pretended like she stumbled a bit and banged into her door just to give her a warning that she was back, and then they were at the door to the suite. “You just relax and let me do the drivin’ for now, big boy,” she said, starting to untuck his shirt from his pants even before he had the door open. “I’ll show you how we like to party down on the bayou.”

“Why haven’t you answered my calls, Gardner?” President Leonid Zevitin thundered. “I’ve been trying for hours.”

“I’ve got my own problems, Leonid,” President Joseph Gardner said. “As if you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got to deal with a little mutiny over here.”

“Gardner, McLanahan has bombed Mashhad, Iran!” Zevitin cried. “He’s destroyed several Russian transports and killed hundreds of men and women! You said he would be forced under control! Why haven’t you dealt with him yet?”

“I’ve been briefed about the attack,” Gardner said. “I’ve also been briefed about the target — an anti-spacecraft laser that was supposedly used to shoot down one of our spaceplanes. Wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Leonid? What were all those Russian personnel and transports doing in Mashhad?”

“Don’t change the subject!” Zevitin shouted. “The Duma is going to meet soon, and they’re going to recommend a permanent change in military posture, including a call-up of ready reserves, mobilization of the army and strategic air forces, and dispersal of mobile ballistic missiles and submarine forces. Was this your plan all along, Gardner — have McLanahan act crazy, attacking targets all over the planet, and forcing us to respond as if we are going to fight a world war? Because this is exactly what it looks like!”

“You think I’m conspiring with McLanahan? The guy is nuts! He’s completely out of control! He’s attacked American military forces, taken over a top secret military base, and stolen several highly classified aircraft and weapons. No one has any contact with him for almost half a day — we think he might have committed suicide on the space station.”

Well, Zevitin thought, that was the best news he’s heard in a long time. “No one will believe any of this,” he told Gardner. “You have got to give me something to tell my Cabinet and the leaders in the Duma, Joe, or this thing could spin out of control. How did he do that attack on Mashhad, Joe?”

“It’s a thing they call ‘netrusion,’ Leonid,” Gardner said. Zevitin’s eyes widened in surprise — the American President was actually going to tell him! “Some of McLanahan’s aircraft and spacecraft have a system where they can not only jam radar and communications, but actually insert bogus code and signals into an enemy system. They can reprogram, crash, or control computers, invade networks, inject viruses, all that egghead shit.”

“This is astounding!” Zevitin exclaimed. Yes — astounding that you’re telling me all this! “That’s how the bombers made it over Mashhad?”

“They made the air defenses around the city react to false targets,” Gardner said. “The air defense guys apparently shut down their missile systems so they wouldn’t shoot at stuff that wasn’t there, and that let the bombers slip in. McLanahan also hacked into their encrypted radio transmissions and gave them false orders, which allowed the bombers to locate and attack the laser site.”

“If all this is true, Joe, then we must put a deal in place to share this technology,” Zevitin said, “or at least pledge not to use it except in time of declared war. Can you imagine if this technology got into the wrong hands? It could devastate our economies! We could be thrown back into the Stone Age in a flash!”

“It’s all McLanahan’s geeks at Dreamland coming up with this stuff,” Gardner said. “I’m going to shut Dreamland down and have that bastard McLanahan shot. I think he’s left the space station and is back at Dreamland. He’s ignored my orders and done what he pleases for too long. I’ve got a friend, a powerful senator, who’s going to try to bring McLanahan out in the open, and when she does I’ll nail his ass to my wall.”

“Who is the senator, Joe?”

“I’m not ready to divulge the name.”

“It will lend credibility to my arguments before the Duma, Joe.”

There was a bit of a pause; then: “Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau, the majority leader. She went to Dreamland to try to meet with McLanahan or Luger to try to defuse this situation.”

He’s got the Senate majority leader spying for him? This couldn’t be better. Zevitin’s mind was racing ahead. Dare he suggest it…? “You don’t want to do that, Joe,” he said carefully. “You don’t want to expose yourself or Barbeau any further. McLanahan is a very popular man in your country, is he not?”

“Yes, unfortunately he is.”

“Then let me propose this idea, Joe: as over the Black Sea and over Iran, let us do the deed for you.”

“What?”

“You told us where those bombers would be and when, and we took care of them for you; you told us about the spaceplane and put them in a position where we could strike—”

“What? You did what with the spaceplane…?”

“Bring McLanahan out into the open,” Zevitin went on, almost breathlessly. “Have Senator Barbeau tell us where he is. I’ll send a team in to sanction him.”

“You mean, a Russian hit team?”

“You don’t want McLanahan’s blood on your hands, Joe,” Zevitin said. “You want him out of the way because he’s much more than an embarrassment to you — he’s a danger to the entire world. He’s got to be stopped. If you have a person on the inside, have him or her contact us. Tell us where he is. We’ll do the rest, and you don’t have to know anything about it.”

“I don’t know if I can do that…”

“If you were seriously considering dispatching him yourself, then you are serious about the danger he poses not just to world peace, but to the safety and very existence of the United States of America. The man is a menace, pure and simple. He is a wild dog that needs to be put down.”

“That’s exactly what I said, Leonid!” Gardner said. “McLanahan has not just crossed the line, but I think he’s become completely unhinged! He’s brainwashed his men to attack American troops…or maybe he’s used that ‘netrusion’ shit to brainwash them. He’s got to be stopped before he takes down the entire country!”

“Then we are of one mind, Joe,” Zevitin said. “I’ll give you a number to call, a safe and secure blind drop, or you can code a message through the ‘hot line.’ You need not do anything except tell us where he is. You need not know a thing. This will be completely deniable.”

There was a long pause on the line; then: “All right, Leonid. Convince your people that America doesn’t want war and has no designs on Russia, and we’ll work together to stop McLanahan.” And he hung up.

This was too good to be true! Zevitin exclaimed to himself. Two of the top politicians in the United States were going to help him assassinate Patrick McLanahan! But who to trust with this project? Not his own intelligence bureau — there were too many shaky alliances, too many unknowns for this type of job. The only person he could trust was Alexandra Hedrov. Her ministry certainly had agents who could do this job.

He went into his bedroom adjacent to his executive office. Alexandra was sitting alone in bed in the darkness. The speakerphone was on; he had hoped she would listen in and be ready to give him advice. She was a valuable adviser and the person he trusted more than anyone in the entire Kremlin. “So, my love,” Zevitin said, “what do you think? Gardner and Barbeau are going to tell us where McLanahan is! I need you to assemble a team, get them into Nevada, and be ready to strike.” She was silent. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her head down, touching her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. “I know, love, this is ugly business. But this is an opportunity we can’t miss! Don’t you agree?” She remained still. “Darling…?” Zevitin flipped on the light switch…and saw that she was unconscious! “Alexandra! What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“I can help you there, Mr. President.” Zevitin turned…and standing in his closet, concealed by the darkness, was a figure in a dark gray uniform, a combination of a flight suit and body armor…a Tin Man battle armor system, he realized. He carried a large weapon, a combination sniper rifle and cannon, in his arms. “Raise your hands.”

He did as he was told. “Who are you?” Zevitin asked. He took a step backward…toward the light switch, which if he could flip it off and back on quickly would send an emergency signal to his security team. “You’re one of McLanahan’s Tin Men, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the man said in an electronically synthesized voice.

“McLanahan sent you to kill me?”

“No,” Zevitin heard a voice say. He turned…and there, wearing another Tin Man battle armor suit but with the helmet removed, was Patrick McLanahan himself. “I thought I’d do that myself, Mr. President.”

Zevitin whirled, pushed McLanahan, lunged for the light switch, and managed to flip it off, then on again. McLanahan impassively watched as Zevitin furiously moved the switch up and down. “Very impressive feat, sneaking past my guards, into my private residence, and into my bedroom,” Zevitin said. “But now you’ll have to fight your way past a hundred trained commandos. You’ll never make it.”

McLanahan’s armored left hand snapped out, closed around Zevitin’s wrist, and squeezed. Zevitin thought his hand had popped completely off his arm, and he sunk to his knees in pain, screaming in agony. “It was about sixty-two guards, and we took care of them all on the way in,” McLanahan said. “We also bypassed your security system’s link to the army base at Zagorsk — they’ll think everything is normal.”

“‘Netrusion,’ I believe you call it?”

“Yes.”

“Ingenious. The whole world will know about it by tomorrow, and soon we’ll unleash it on the rest of the world when we reverse-engineer the technology.”

McLanahan’s right hand whipped out and closed around Zevitin’s neck. His face was purely impassive, emotionless. “I don’t think so, Mr. President,” he said.

“So. You’ve become an assassin now? The great air general Patrick Shane McLanahan has become a common killer. Betraying your oath and disobeying your commander-in-chief weren’t enough for you, eh? Now you’re going to commit the ultimate mortal sin and destroy a life for no other reason than a personal vendetta?”

McLanahan just stood there, no expression on his face, looking directly into Zevitin’s sneering face; then he nodded and replied simply: “Yes, Mr. President,” and he effortlessly squeezed his fingers together and clenched them until the body in his grasp went completely limp and lifeless. The two Americans stood there for a minute, watching the blood pour onto the polished wood floor and the body make a few twitches, until finally McLanahan let the body fall from his grasp.

“Didn’t think you’d do it for a second there, boss,” Major Wayne Macomber said in his electronic voice.

Patrick went into the closet and retrieved his helmet and electromagnetic rail gun. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else for a long time, Whack,” he said. He put on his helmet and hefted his rail gun. “Let’s go home.”

This is all going to shit, President Joseph Gardner said to himself. But it’s not my damned fault. McLanahan needs to be gone, soonest. If he had to make a deal with the devil to do it, so be it.

He went from his private office back into the bedroom suite of the Camp David presidential retreat, where he found his houseguest — the staff sergeant he’d had aboard Air Force One — standing at the wet bar on the far side of the room, wearing nothing but an almost transparent negligee, open all the way down, her hands enticingly behind her. Damn, he thought, that was one hot future Air Force officer! “Hey, honey, sorry to take so long, but it couldn’t wait. Fix us a drink, will you?”

“Fix it yourself, you fucking sleazeball,” he heard, “then go shove it up your ass.” Gardner whirled around…

…and found none other than Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau standing before him! “Stacy!” he blurted. “How in hell did you get in here?”

“Compliments of General McLanahan,” he heard. He turned the other way and saw a figure in some sort of futuristic body armor and helmet standing by the wall. He heard a sound behind him and saw yet another figure in head-to-toe body armor and helmet, carrying a huge rifle, step into the suite.

“Who are you?” the President exclaimed. “How did you get in here?” He finally recognized who they were. “You’re McLanahan’s Tin Men! He sent you to kill me?”

“Never mind them, Joe!” Barbeau cried. “What was all that about? You made a deal with Zevitin to have McLanahan assassinated by Russian agents?”

“It’s starting to look like a damn good idea, Stacy, don’t you think?” Gardner asked. “This is exactly what I was afraid of — McLanahan is going to assassinate all his enemies and take over the government!”

“So to plan a strategy to deal with the crisis you bring a bimbo to Camp David, screw around with her awhile, then make a deal with the president of Russia to have an American general assassinated?”

Gardner whirled around. “Help! Help me!” he screamed. “I’m in the suite and there are armed men in here! Get in here! Help!”

One of the armored figures strode over to Gardner, put a hand behind his neck, and squeezed. Gardner’s vision exploded into a cloud of stars from the sudden intense pain. All of his strength immediately left his body, and he collapsed to his knees. “They’re all out for now, Mr. President,” the armored figure said. “No one can hear you.”

“Get away from me!” Gardner sobbed. “Don’t kill me!”

“I should kill you myself, you piece of shit!” Barbeau shouted. “I wanted McLanahan out of the way, maybe embarrass or disgrace him if he didn’t cooperate, but I wasn’t going to kill him, you stupid idiot! And I certainly wasn’t going to make a deal with the Russians to do it!”

“It’s McLanahan’s fault,” Gardner said. “He’s crazy. I had to do it.”

The figure grasping Gardner’s neck released him. Gardner collapsed to the floor, and the armored figure stood over him. “Listen to me carefully, Mr. President,” the figure said in a weird computerized voice. “We’ve got you on tape admitting to conspiring with the Russians to shoot down American bombers and the Black Stallion spaceplane, and conspiring with the president of Russia to have Russian agents enter the country to assassinate an American general.”

“You can’t kill me!” Gardner cried. “I am the President of the United States!”

The figure slammed an armored fist right beside the President’s head, then two inches down through the resawn maple floor and concrete foundation in the bedroom suite. Gardner screamed again and tried to scurry away, but the figure grasped him by the throat, putting his helmeted face right up to the President’s. “I can kill you easily, Mr. President,” the figure said. “We stopped the Navy SEALs, we stopped the Secret Service, and we stopped the Russian air force — we can certainly stop you. But we’re not going to kill you.”

“What do you want then?”

“Amnesty,” the figure said. “Full and complete freedom from prosecution or investigation for everyone involved in actions against the United States or its allies from Dreamland, Battle Mountain, Batman, Tehran, and Constanţa. Full retirements and honorable discharges for everyone who doesn’t want to serve under you as their commander-in-chief.”

“What else?”

“That’s all,” the other figure said. “But to ensure that you’ll do as we say, the Tin Men and CID units will disappear. If you cross us, or if anything happens to any of us, we’ll come back and finish the job.”

“You can’t stop us,” the first Tin Man said. “We’ll find you no matter where you try to hide. You won’t be able to track or detect us, because we can manipulate your sensors, computer networks, and communications any way we choose. We’ll monitor all your conversations, your e-mails, your movements. If you betray us, we’ll find you, and you’ll simply disappear. Do you understand, Mr. President?” He looked at the two women in the room. “That goes for you two as well. We don’t exist — but we’ll be watching you. All of you.”