Shadow Command

CHAPTER THREE

“No bread, no peace! No bread, no peace!” the protesters chanted over and over again. It seemed the crowd, now numbering around two or three hundred, was growing bigger and exponentially louder by the minute.

“If they have no bread, where do they get all the energy to stand out here and protest?” Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, muttered as he studied the security barriers and observed the crowds getting ever closer. Just two weeks earlier, Rahmati, a short, rather round man with bushy dark hair that seemed to grow thickly across every inch of his body except the top of his head, was executive officer of a transportation battalion, but the way commanding officers were disappearing — presumably killed by insurgents, although no one could rule out desertion — promotions came quickly and urgently in the army of the presumptive Democratic Republic of Persia.

“More smoke,” one of Rahmati’s lookouts reported. “Tear gas, not an explosion.” Seconds later, they heard a loud bang! strong enough to rattle the windows of the airport office building he and his senior staff members were seated in. The lookout sheepishly glanced at his commanding officer. “A small explosion, sir.”

“So I gather,” Rahmati said. He didn’t want to show any displeasure or exasperation — two weeks ago he wouldn’t have been able to tell a grenade explosion from a loud fart. “Watch the lines carefully — it could be a diversion.”

Rahmati and his staff were on the upper floor of an office building that once belonged to the Iranian Ministry of Transportation at Mehrabad International Airport. Since the military coup and the start of the Islamist insurgency against the military government in Iran, the coup leaders had decided to take over Mehrabad Airport and had established a tight security perimeter around the entire area. Although most of the city east of Tehran University had been left to the insurgents, taking over the airport turned out to be a wise decision. The airport was already highly secure; the open spaces around the field were easy to patrol and defend; and the airport could be kept open to receive and send supplies by air.

Besides, it was often pointed out, if the insurgents ever got the upper hand — which could be any day now — it would be that much easier to get the hell out of the country.

The windows rattled again, and heads turned farther southeast along Me’raj Avenue northeast toward Azadi Square, about two kilometers away, where another billow of smoke, this one topped with a crown of orange fire, suddenly rose. Bombings, arson, intentional accidents, mayhem, and frequent suicide bombings were commonplace in Tehran, and none more common than the area between Mehrabad Airport, Azadi Square, and the famous Freedom Tower, the erstwhile “Gateway to Iran.” Freedom Tower, first called Shahyad Tower, or the King’s Tower, commemorating the two thousand five hundredth anniversary of the Persian Empire, was built in 1971 by Shah Reza Pahlavi as a symbol of the new, modern Iran. The tower was renamed after the Islamic Revolution and, like the U.S. Embassy, was seen more as a symbol of the decadent monarchy and a warning to the people not to embrace the Western enemies of Islam. The square became a popular area for anti-Western demonstrations and speeches and so became a symbol of the Islamic revolution, which was probably why the marble-clad monument to Iran’s last monarchy was never torn down.

Because the entire area was heavily fortified and well patrolled by the military, trade and commerce had started to revive here, and even some luxuries like restaurants, cafés, and movie theaters had reopened. Unfortunately these were frequent targets by Islamist insurgents. A few brave pro-theocratic protesters would organize a rally occasionally in Azadi Square. To their credit, the military did not crack down on these rallies and even took steps to protect them against counterprotesters that threatened to get too violent. Buzhazi and most of his officers knew that they had to do everything possible to demonstrate to the people of Persia, and to the world, that they were not going to replace one brand of oppression with another.

“What’s happening over there?” Rahmati asked as he continued to scan the avenue for more signs of an organized insurgent offensive. Every insurgent attack of late had been preceded by a smaller innocuous-looking one nearby, which diverted the attention of police and military patrols just enough to allow the insurgents to create even more havoc somewhere else.

“Looks like that new ExxonMobil gasoline station off the Sai-di Highway, across from Meda Azadi Park, sir,” a lookout reported. “A large crowd running toward Azadi Avenue. The smoke is getting thicker — perhaps the underground tanks are on fire.”

“Damn it all, I thought we had enough security around there,” Rahmati cursed. The station was the government’s first experiment into allowing foreign investment and part ownership in businesses in Persia. With the world’s fourth-largest oil reserves, petroleum companies around the world were eager to move into the newly freed country and tap its wealth, almost untouched for decades since the Western embargoes against the theocratic Iranian government following the takeover of the U.S. Embassy in 1979. It was much, much more than a simple gasoline station — it was a symbol of a reborn, twenty-first-century Persia.

Everyone understood that, even soldiers like Rahmati, whose main goal in life was to look out for number one — himself. He came from a privileged family and joined the military because of its prestige and benefits after it was apparent that he wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. After Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s revolution, he saved his skin by swearing fealty to the theocrats, informing on his fellow officers and friends to the Pasdaran i-Engelab, the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and by giving up much of his family’s hard-earned riches in bribes and tributes. Although he hated the theocracy for taking everything he had, he didn’t join the coup until it was obvious that it was going to succeed. “I want a reserve platoon to go in with the firefighters to put out those fires,” he went on, “and if any protesters get near, they are to push them back north of Azadi Avenue and northwest of the square, even if they have to crack some skulls. I don’t want—”

“If you were going to say, ‘I don’t want to let this get out of control,’ Colonel, cracking skulls is not the way to accomplish that,” a voice said behind him. Rahmati turned, then snapped to and called the room to attention as the leader of the military coup, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, entered the room.

The struggle to free his country from the grip of the theocrats and Islamists had aged Buzhazi well beyond his sixty-two years. Tall and always slender, he now struggled to take time to eat enough to maintain a healthy weight amidst his twenty-hour-a-day duties, infrequent and sparse meals, and the necessity of staying on the move to confuse his enemies — inside his cadre as well as outside — that were relentlessly hunting him. He still wore a closely cropped beard and mustache, but had shaved his head so he didn’t have to take the time to keep his former flowing gray locks looking good. Although he had traded his military uniform for a suit and French-styled Gatsby shirt, he did carry a military-style greatcoat without decorations and wore spit-shined paratrooper’s boots under his slacks, and he wore a PC9 nine-millimeter automatic pistol in a shoulder rig under his jacket. “As you were,” he ordered. The others in the room relaxed. “Report, Colonel.”

“Yes, sir.” Rahmati quickly ran down the most serious events of the past few hours; then: “Sorry for that outburst, sir. I’m just a little frustrated, that’s all. I put extra men on that station just to prevent such an occurrence.”

“Your frustration sounded like an order to retaliate against anti-government protesters, Colonel, and that won’t help the situation,” Buzhazi said. “We’ll deal harshly with the perpetrators, not the protesters. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Buzhazi looked carefully at his brigade commander. “Looks like you need some rest, Mostafa.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Buzhazi nodded, then looked around the room. “Well, you can’t run your brigade from here all the time, can you? Let’s go see what happened out there.” Rahmati gulped, then nodded, reluctantly following the general out the door, wishing he had agreed to take a nap. Traveling the streets of Tehran — even in broad daylight, within the portion of the city Buzhazi controlled, and with a full platoon of battle-hardened security forces — was never a safe or advisable move.

Every block of the two kilometers from the airport to Meda Azari Park was a maze of concrete and steel chicanes designed to slow the heaviest vehicles down; there was a new checkpoint every three blocks, and even Buzhazi’s motorcade had to stop and be searched each time. Buzhazi didn’t seem to mind one bit, using the opportunity to greet his soldiers and the few citizens out on the street. Rahmati didn’t want to get that close to anyone, choosing instead to keep his AK-74 assault rifle at the ready. As they got closer to the park and the crowds got larger, Buzhazi strode down the street, shaking hands with those who offered their hand, waving to others, and shouting a few words of encouragement. His bodyguards had to step lively to keep up with him.

Rahmati had to hand it to the guy: the old warhorse knew how to work a crowd. He waded into the crowds fearlessly, shook hands with those who might just as well be holding a gun or trigger for a bomb vest, spoke to reporters and gave statements in front of TV cameras, had his picture taken with civilians and military men, kissed babies and old toothless women, and even acted as a traffic officer when fire trucks tried to enter the area, urging the crowds back and directing confused motorists away. But now they were just a few blocks from the gas station fire, and the crowds were getting thicker and much more restive. “Sir, I suggest we interview the security patrols and find out if any witnesses saw what happened or if any security cameras were operating,” Rahmati said, making it clear that here would be a good place to do that.

Buzhazi didn’t seem to hear him. Instead of stopping he kept on walking, heading right for the largest and noisiest gaggle gathering on the northwest side of the park. Rahmati had no choice but to stay with him, rifle at the ready.

Buzhazi didn’t turn around, but seemed to sense the brigade commander’s anxiety. “Put the weapon away, Mostafa,” Buzhazi said.

“But sir—”

“If they wanted a shot at me they could have done it two blocks ago, before we were looking at each other eye to eye,” Buzhazi said. “Tell the security detail to shoulder their weapons as well.” The team leader, an impossibly young air force major by the name of Haddad, must have heard him, because the bodyguards’ weapons had already disappeared by the time Rahmati turned to relay the order.

The crowd visibly tensed as Buzhazi and his bodyguards approached, and the small knot of men, women, and even some kids quickly grew. Rahmati was no policeman or expert on crowd psychology, but he noticed as more onlookers came closer to see what was going on, the others would be pressed farther and farther forward, toward the source of danger, causing them to feel trapped and scared for their life. Once panic started to set in, the crowd would quickly and suddenly turn into a mob; and when some soldier or armed individual felt his life was in danger, the shooting would start and the casualties would quickly mount.

But Buzhazi seemed oblivious to the obvious: he kept on marching forward — not threateningly, but not with any kind of false bravado or friendliness either; all business, but not confrontational like a soldier or glad-handed like a politician. Did he think he was going to drop in on some friends and discuss the issues of the day, or sit down to watch a football match? Or did he think he was invulnerable? Whatever his mental state, he was not reading this crowd correctly. Rahmati began thinking about how he was going to get to his rifle…and at the same time trying to decide which way he could run if this situation completely went to hell.

“Salam aleikom,” Buzhazi called when about ten paces from the growing crowd, raising his right hand in greeting as well as to show he was unarmed. “Is anyone hurt here?”

A young man no more than seventeen or eighteen stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the general. “What does a damned soldier care if anyone is—?” And then he stopped, his finger still extended. “You! Hesarak Buzhazi, the new emperor of Persia! The reincarnation of Cyrus and Alexander himself! Are we required to genuflect before you, or is a simple bow sufficient, my lord?”

“I said, is anyone—?”

“What do you think of your empire now, General?” the young man asked, motioning to the clouds of acrid smoke swirling not too far away. “Or is it ‘Emperor’ Buzhazi now?”

“If no one is in need of assistance, I need volunteers to keep others away from the blast site, locate witnesses, and gather evidence until the police arrive,” Buzhazi said, turning his attention away — but not completely away — from the loud firebrand. He sought out the eldest person in the crowd. “You, sir. I need you to ask for volunteers and to secure this crime scene. Then I need—”

“Why should we help you, lord and master sir?” the first young man shouted. “You were the one who brought this violence upon us! Iran was a peaceful and secure country until you came in, slaughtered everyone who didn’t agree with your totalitarian ideas, and took over. Why should we cooperate with you?”

“Peaceful and secure, yes — under the heel of the clerics, Islamists, and crazies who killed or imprisoned anyone who didn’t comply with their edicts,” Buzhazi said, unable to avoid being drawn into a debate he knew was not going to be won. “They betrayed the people like they betrayed myself and everyone in the army. They—”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it, Mr. Emperor: you?” the man said. “You don’t like the way you were treated by your former friends, the clerics, so you slaughtered them and took over. Why do we care what you say now? You’ll tell us anything to stay in power until you’re done raping the country, and then you’ll fly off right from your very conveniently located new headquarters at Mehrabad Airport.”

Buzhazi was silent for a few moments, then nodded, which surprised everyone around. “You’re right, young man. I was angry at the deaths of my soldiers, who had worked so hard to get rid of the radicals and nutcases in the Basij and make something of themselves, their unit, and their lives.” After Buzhazi had been dismissed as chief of staff, following the American stealth bomber attacks against their Russian-made aircraft carrier years earlier, he had been demoted to commander of the Basij-i-Mostazefin, or “Mobilization of the Oppressed,” a group of civilian volunteers who informed on neighbors, acted as lookouts and spies, and roamed the streets terrorizing others to conform and cooperate with the Revolutionary Guards Corps.

Buzhazi purged the Basij of the gangsters and rabble-rousers and transformed the remainder into the Internal Defense Force, a true military reserve force. But their success challenged the domination of the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and they acted to try to discredit — or preferably destroy — Buzhazi’s fledgling national guard force. “When I learned it was the Pasdaran that had staged the attack against my first operational reserve unit, making it look like a Kurdish insurgent action, just to hurt and discredit the Internal Defense Force, I got angry and lashed out.

“But the Islamists and the terrorists the clerics have brought into our country are the real problem, son, not the Pasdaran,” Buzhazi went on. “They have gutted the minds of this nation, emptied them of all common sense and decency, and filled it with nothing but fear, contempt, and blind obedience.”

“So what is the difference between you and the clerics, Buzhazi?” another young man shouted. Rahmati could see the crowd was getting bolder, more vocal, and not afraid to get closer every second. “You kill off the clerics and take down the government—our government, the one we elected! — and replace it with your junta. We see your troops breaking down doors, burning buildings, stealing, and raping every day!”

The crowd noisily voiced its agreement, and Buzhazi had to raise his hands and voice to be heard: “First of all, I promise you, if you bring me evidence of a theft or rape by any soldier under my command, I will personally put a bullet in his head,” he shouted. “No tribunal, no secret trial, no hearing — bring me the evidence, convince me, and I will drag the man responsible before you and execute him myself.

“Second, I am not forming a government in Persia, and I am not a president or emperor — I am commander of the resistance forces temporarily in place to quell violence and establish order. I will stay in command long enough to root out the insurgents and terrorists and supervise the formation of some form of government that will draft a constitution and enact laws governing the people, and then I will step down. That is why I set up my headquarters at Mehrabad — not for a quick escape, but to show that I’m not going to occupy legitimate government offices and call myself a president.”

“That’s what Musharraf, Castro, Chávez, and hundreds of other dictators and despots said when they engineered their coups and took over the government,” the young man said. “They said they fought for the people and would leave as soon as order was established, and before you knew it they had installed themselves in office for life, placed their friends and thugs in positions of power, suspended or tossed out the constitution, taken over the banks, nationalized all the businesses, taken away land and wealth from the rich, and closed any media outlets that opposed them. You will do the same in Iran.”

Buzhazi studied the young man for a moment, then carefully scanned the others around him. Those, he observed, were some very good points — this guy was very intelligent and well read for such an age, and he suspected most of the others were too. He was not among normal street kids here.

“I judge a man by his actions, not his words — friend as well as enemy,” Buzhazi said. “I could promise you peace, happiness, security, and prosperity, just like any politician, or I could promise you a place in heaven like the clerics, but I won’t. All I can promise is that I will fight as hard as I can to stop the insurgents from tearing our country apart before we’ve had a chance to form a government of the people, whatever that government will be. I will use all my skills, training, and experience to make this country secure until a government by the people stands up.”

“Those sound like pretty words to me, Mr. Emperor, the kind you just pledged you wouldn’t use.”

Buzhazi smiled and nodded, looking at those who seemed the angriest or most distrustful directly in the eye. “I see many of you have cell phone cameras, so you have video proof of what I say. If I was the dictator you think I am, I’d confiscate all those phones and have you tossed in prison.”

“You could do that tonight after you break into our homes and roust us out of bed.”

“But I won’t,” Buzhazi said. “You are free to send the videos out to anyone on the planet, post it on YouTube, sell it to the media. The video will be documentation of my promise to you, but my actions will be the final proof.”

“How do we send out any videos, old man,” a young woman asked, “when power is only on for three hours a day? We are lucky if the phones work for a few minutes each day.”

“I read the postings, I surf the Internet, and I lurk on the blogs, just like you,” Buzhazi said. “The American satellite global wireless Internet system works well even in Persia — may I remind you that it was jammed by the clerics in order to try to prevent you from receiving contrary news from the outside world — and I know many of you enterprising young people have built pedal-powered generators to recharge your laptops when the power goes out. I may be an old man, young lady, but I’m not completely out of touch.” He was pleased to see a few smiles appear on the faces of those around him — finally, he thought, he was starting to speak their language.

“But I remind you that the power goes out because of insurgent attacks on our power generators and distribution networks,” he went on. “There’s an enemy out there who doesn’t care about the people of Persia — all they want is to regain power for themselves, and they’ll do it any way they can think of, even if it hurts or kills innocent citizens. I took power away from them and allowed the citizens of this country to communicate with the outside world again. I allowed foreign investment and aid to return to Persia, while the clerics shut out the rest of the world for over thirty years and hoarded the wealth and power of this nation. That’s the action I’m talking about, my friends. I can say absolutely nothing, and those actions would speak louder than a thousand thunderstorms.”

“So when will the attacks stop, General?” the first man asked. “How long will it take to drive the insurgents out?”

“Long after I’m dead and buried, I think,” Buzhazi said. “So then it’ll be up to you. How long do you want it to take, son?”

“Hey, you started this war, not me!” the man thundered, shaking his fist. “Do not lay this at my feet! You say you’ll be dead long before this is over — well, why don’t you just go to hell now and save us all a lot of time!” A few in the crowd blinked at the man’s violent outburst, but said or did nothing. “And I am not your son, old man. My father was killed in the street outside the shop my family has owned for three generations, during a gun battle between your troops and the Pasdaran, right before my eyes, my mother’s, and my baby sister’s.”

Buzhazi nodded. “I am sorry. Then tell me your name.”

“I don’t feel like telling you my name, old man,” the young man said bitterly, “because I see you and your forces just as capable of arresting me or shooting me in the head as the Pasdaran reportedly were.”

“‘Reportedly?’ You doubt that the Pasdaran are killing anyone who opposes the clerics?”

“I saw plenty of violence and bloodthirstiness on both sides in the gun battle in which my father was killed,” the young man went on, “and I see very little difference between you and the clerics except perhaps the clothes you wear. Are you correct or justified in your actions just because the Americans swooped in and helped you drive the Pasdaran temporarily out of the capital? When you are driven out, will you be the new insurgents then? Will you make war on the innocent because you think you are correct?”

“If you truly believe that I’m no better or worse than the Islamic Revolutionary Guards, then no amount of words will ever convince you otherwise,” Buzhazi said, “and you will blame your father’s death on any convenient target. I am sorry for your loss.” He turned and scanned the others around him. “I see a lot of angry faces out here in the street, but I hear some extremely intelligent voices as well. My question to you is: If you’re so smart, what are you doing out here just standing around? Your fellow citizens are dying, and you do nothing but shuffle from attack to attack shaking your fists at my soldiers while the insurgents move to the next target.”

“What are we supposed to do, old man?” another man asked.

“Follow your head, follow your heart, and take action,” Buzhazi said. “If it’s the clerics you truly believe have the best interests of the nation in mind, join the insurgency and fight to drive me and my men out of the country. If you believe in the monarchists, join them and create your own insurgency in the name of the Qagev, battling both the Islamists and my soldiers, and bring the monarchy back to power. If you think what I say and do makes sense, put on a uniform, pick up a rifle, and join me. If you don’t want to join anyone, at least keep your damn eyes open and when you see an attack against your family or your neighbors, take action…any action. Fight, inform, assist, protect — do something rather than just stand around and complain about it.”

He scanned their faces once again, letting them look directly into his eyes and he into theirs. Most of them did. He saw some real strength in this bunch, and it gave him hope. They were worth fighting for, he decided. No matter which side they chose, they were the future of this land. “It’s your country, dammit…it’s our country. If it’s not worth fighting for, go somewhere else before you become another casualty.” He fell silent, letting his words sink in; then: “Now I need your help policing this crime scene. My soldiers will set up a perimeter and secure the area, but I need some of you to help the rescuers recover the victims and the police gather evidence and interview witnesses. Who will help?”

The crowd paused, waiting for someone to move first. Then the first young man stepped forward and said to Buzhazi, “Not for you, Emperor. You think you are any different than the insurgents roaming the streets? You’re worse. You’re nothing but a pretentious old man with a gun. That doesn’t make you right.” And he turned and walked away, followed by the rest.

“Shit, I thought I had gotten through to them,” Buzhazi said to Colonel Rahmati.

“They’re just a bunch of losers, sir,” the brigade commander said. “You asked what they’re doing out here on the streets? They’re stirring up trouble, that’s all. For all we know, they are the ones who blew up that gas station. How do we know they’re not insurgents?”

“They are insurgents, Mostafa,” Buzhazi said.

Rahmati looked stunned. “They…are? How do you know…I mean, we should arrest all of them right now!”

“They’re insurgents, but not Islamists,” Buzhazi said. “If I had a choice as to which I’d want out on the streets right now, it’s definitely them. I still think they’ll help, but not the way I might want them to.” He looked in the direction of the still-burning gasoline station to the remnants of a smoldering delivery truck that had been blown several dozen meters across the street. “Stay here and keep your weapons out of sight. Get the perimeter set up. I want no more than two soldiers positioned at any intersection, and they should be stationed on opposite corners, not together.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because if there are more, informants will not approach them — and we need information, fast,” Buzhazi said. He started walking toward the smoking truck. Rahmati started to follow, not wanting to appear any more frightened than he was already, but Buzhazi turned and growled, “I said stay here and get that perimeter set up.” Rahmati was only too glad to comply.

A fire truck had approached the burning hulk and two very young-looking firefighters — probably children of dead or injured real firemen, a common practice in this part of the world — started to fight the fire, using a weak stream of water from the old surplus fire truck. It was going to be a long and smoky job. Buzhazi stepped around the fire truck, just far enough from the smoke so he wouldn’t be choked by it, but was mostly screened from view. Now that the cleanup job had started, the crowds had started to disperse. Another, larger fire crew was attacking the blaze at the gas station itself, which was still very hot and fierce, rapidly driving huge columns of black smoke skyward. It was unbelievable to Buzhazi that the flames seemed to drink in even that huge volume of water — the fire was so intense that the fire actually seemed to—

“Quite a speech back there, General,” he heard a voice say behind him.

Buzhazi nodded and smiled — he had guessed correctly. He turned and nodded formally to Her Highness Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the heir presumptive of the Peacock Throne of Persia. He glanced behind the young woman and spotted Captain Mara Saidi, one of Azar’s royal bodyguards, standing discreetly near a lamppost, expertly blending in with the chaos around them. Her jacket was open and her hands clasped before her, obviously shielding a weapon from sight. “I thought I saw the captain there in the crowd, and I knew you’d be nearby. I assume the major is nearby with a sniper rifle or RPG, correct?”

“I believe he’s armed with both weapons today — you know how he likes to come prepared,” Azar said, bowing in return, not bothering to point out her chief of internal security Parviz Najar’s hiding place — just in case Buzhazi’s little rendezvous here was really a trap. She couldn’t afford to trust this man — alliances changed so quickly in Persia. “I have promoted Najar to lieutenant colonel and Saidi to major for their bravery in getting me out of America and back home.”

Buzhazi nodded approvingly. Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the pretender to the Peacock Throne, Mohammed Hassan Qagev — still missing since the beginning of Buzhazi’s coup against the theocratic regime of Iran — had just turned seventeen years old, but she had the self-confidence of an adult twice her age, not to mention the courage, martial skills, and tactical foresight of an infantry company commander. She was also turning into a woman very nicely, Buzhazi couldn’t help but notice, with long shiny black hair, graceful curves starting to bud on her slender figure, and dark, dancing, almost mischievous eyes. Her arms and legs were covered but with a white blouse and “chocolate chip” desert fatigue trousers, not a burka, to protect herself from the sun; her head was covered but with a TeamMelli World Cup Football team “doo-rag,” not a hijab.

But his eyes were also automatically drawn to her hands. Every other generation of men of the Qagev dynasty — possibly the women too, but they were probably discarded as newborns rather than have them grow up with any sort of deficiency — had suffered from a genetic defect called bilateral hypoplastic thumb, or missing a thumb on both hands. She had pollicization surgery as a young child, which makes the index fingers function as thumbs, and left her with only four fingers on both hands.

But rather than becoming a handicap, Azar had made the deformity a source of strength, toughening her up beginning at a very young age. She had more than made up for her perceived deficiency: rumor was that she could outshoot most men twice her age and was an accomplished pianist and martial artist. Azar reportedly rarely wore gloves, letting others see her hands both as a symbol of her legacy and as a distraction to her adversaries.

Azar had secretly lived in the United States of America since she was two years old, under the protection of her bodyguards Najar and Saidi, who posed as her parents, separated from her real parents for security reasons, who had also lived in hiding as guests of the U.S. Department of State. When Buzhazi’s coup erupted, the Qagevs immediately activated their war council and headed back to Iran. The king and queen — who were supposed to be in hiding yet ran a Web site, regularly appeared in the media blasting the theocratic regime in Iran, and openly vowing to someday return and take control of the country — were still missing and presumed killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps or al-Quds terrorist forces, with the help of the Russians and Turkmenis. But Azar did make it into Iran, using her wits, natural-born leadership skills — and a lot of help from the American Battle Force and a small army of armored commandos — and joined up with the royal war council and their thousands of jubilant followers.

“I’m impressed, Highness,” Buzhazi said, taking off his helmet and pouring a bit of water on his face before taking a deep drink. “I was looking specifically for you, but you blended into the crowd perfectly. Obviously the others had no idea who you were, because no one tried to form a defensive shield around you when I approached. You hid your mun well.”

“I’ve been hanging around the city trying to listen to these young people to find out what they want and what they expect,” Azar said. Her American accent was still thick, making her Farsi hard to understand. She removed the Iranian national soccer team headband to reveal the long waist-length ponytail, the mun, typical of Persian royalty for centuries. She shook her hair, glad to be free from the self-imposed but traditional bonds. Major Saidi, a horrified look on her face, stepped toward her, silently urging her to hide her mun before anyone on the streets noticed. Azar rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and tied the ponytail up again under the doo-rag. “They know me as one of the displaced, that’s all — like them.”

“Except with a hundred armed bodyguards, a council of war, a secret war chest bigger than the gross national product of most of central Asia, and several hundred thousand followers who would gladly step in front of a line of machine guns to see you back on the Takht-e-Tavous, the Peacock Throne.”

“I’d trade all that I control to convince you and your brigades to join me, Hesarak,” she said. “My followers are loyal and dedicated, but we are still far too few, and my followers are loyalists, not fighters.”

“What do you think is the difference between a so-called loyalist and a soldier, Highness?” Buzhazi asked. “When your country’s in danger, there is no difference. In times of war, citizens become fighters, or they become slaves.”

“They need a general…they need you.”

“They need a leader, Highness, and that person is you,” Buzhazi said. “If half your loyalists are as smart, fearless, and daring as that bunch that you were hanging around with back there, they can easily take control of this country.”

“They won’t follow a girl.”

“Probably not…but they’ll follow a leader.”

“I want you to lead them.”

“I’m not taking sides here, Highness — I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi said. “I’m here because the Pasdaran and the insurgents they sponsor are still a threat to this country, and I will hunt them down until every last one of them is dead. But I’m not going to be the president. John Alton said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ I know my power comes from my army, and I don’t want the people to be ruled by its military. It should be the other way around.”

“If you won’t be their president, be their general,” Azar said. “Lead your army under the Qagev banner, train our loyalists, draft more fighters from the civilian population, and let us put our nation back together.”

Buzhazi looked seriously at the young woman. “What of your parents, Highness?” he asked.

Azar swallowed at the unexpected question, but the steel quickly returned to her eyes. “Still no word, General,” she replied firmly. “They are alive — I know it.”

“Of course, Highness,” Buzhazi said softly. “I have heard your council of war won’t approve of you leading your forces until you reach the age of majority.”

Azar sneered and shook her head. “The age of majority was fourteen for centuries — Alexander was fourteen when he led his first army into battle,” she spat. “When projectile warfare became more advanced and weapons and armor got thicker and heavier, the age of majority — the word comes from majour, the leader of a regiment — was raised to eighteen because anyone younger could not lift a sword or wear the armor. What relevance does that have in today’s world? Nowadays a five-year-old can use a computer, read a map, talk on a radio, and understand patterns and trends. But my esteemed council of stuffed-shirt old men and cluck-clucking old women won’t let anyone younger than eighteen lead the army — especially one that is female.”

“I recommend someone get your battalion commanders together, nominate a commander, get it approved by your war council, and get organized…soon,” Buzhazi warned. “Your raids are completely uncoordinated and don’t seem to have any purpose other than random killings and mayhem that keep the population on edge.”

“I’ve already said that to the council, but they’re not listening to a little girl,” Azar complained. “I’m just a figurehead, a symbol. They would rather quibble over who has seniority, who has more followers, or who can bring in more recruits or cash. All they want out of me is a male heir. Without a king, the council will make no decisions.”

“Then be the Malika.”

“I don’t like being called ‘Queen,’ General, and you know it, I’m sure,” Azar said hotly. “My parents are not dead.” She said those last words angrily, defiantly, as if attempting to convince herself as well as the general.

“It’s been almost two years since they’ve disappeared, Highness — how much longer are you going to wait? Until you turn eighteen? Where will Persia be in fifteen months? Or until a rival dynasty asserts its claim to the Peacock Throne, or some strongman takes over and has all the Qagevs back on the run?”

Obviously Azar had asked herself all these questions already, because it pained her that she didn’t have any answers. “I know, General, I know,” she said in a tiny voice, the saddest one he had ever heard her use. “That’s why I need you to go before the council of war, join us, take command of our loyalists, and unite the anti-Islamist forces against Mohtaz and his bloodthirsty jihadis. You are the most powerful man in Persia. They would not hesitate to approve.”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to be the commanding general in a monarchist army, Highness,” Buzhazi said. “I need to know what the Qagev stand for before I’ll throw my support behind them.” He looked at Azar somberly. “And until your parents appear, or until you turn eighteen — maybe not even then — the council of war speaks for the Qagev…”

“And they cannot even decide if the royal flag should be raised before or after morning prayers,” Azar said disgustedly. “They argue about court protocol, rank, and petty procedures rather than tactics, strategies, and objectives.”

“And you want me to take my orders from them? No thank you, Highness.”

“But if there was a way to convince them to support you if you announced that you would form a government, Hesarak—”

“I told you, I’m not in the business of forming governments,” Buzhazi snapped. “I took down the clerics, the corrupt Islamist leadership, and their hired goons the Pasdaran because they are the true obstacles to freedom and law in this country. But may I remind you that we still have a Majlis-i-Shura that we elected that supposedly have the constitutional authority to take control and form a representative government? Where are they? Hiding, that’s what. They’re afraid they’ll be targeted for assassination if they poke their little heads out, so they’d rather watch in their comfortable villas with their bodyguards surrounding them while their country tears itself apart.”

“So it sounds like you just want someone to ask you to help them, is that it, General? You crave the honor and respect of having a politician or princess beg for help?”

“What I crave, Highness, is for the persons who supposedly lead this country to get off their fat asses and lead,” Buzhazi said hotly. “Until the Majlis, your so-called war council, or someone else decides it has the stomach to squash the Islamist insurgency, take charge, and form a government, I’ll keep doing what I do best — hunting down and killing as many of the enemies of Persia as I can to save innocent lives. At least I have an objective.”

“My followers share your vision, General…”

“Then prove it. Help me do my job until you can talk some sense into your war council.”

Azar wanted to argue, for her people and their struggle as well as for her own legitimacy, but she knew she had run out of answers. Buzhazi was right: they had the will to resist the Islamists, but they just couldn’t get the job done. She nodded resignedly. “All right, General, I’m listening. How can we help you?”

“Tell your loyalists to join my army and pledge to follow my orders for two years. I’ll train and equip them. After two years they are free to return to you, with all the equipment and weapons they can carry on their backs.”

Azar’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “A very generous offer.”

“But they must swear during their two-year enlistment to obey my commands and fight for me, all the way and then some, upon penalty of death — not by any war council, court, or tribunal, but by me. If they are caught passing information to anyone outside my ranks, including you, they’ll die in humiliation and disgrace.”

Azar nodded. “What else?”

“If they will not join my army, they must agree to pass on clear, timely, and actionable information to me, on a constant basis or on demand, and to support my army with everything they have to give — food, clothing, shelter, water, money, supplies, anything,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve ordered my security details spread out to make it easier for your people to pass notes, photos, or other information to them, and I will provide you with blind drops and secure voice and e-mail addresses for you to use to leave us information.

“But you must help us, all of you. Your loyalists can follow the Qagev, such as you are, but they will help me, or they will stand out of the way while my men and I fight. They either agree that I fight for Persia and I am deserving of their complete and total support, or they will lay down their weapons and stay off the streets — no more raids or bombings, no more roving gangs, and no more assassinations that serve only to terrorize the innocents and cause the Pasdaran and Islamists to increase their attacks against the civilian population.”

“That will be…difficult,” Azar admitted. “I simply don’t know all of the resistance leaders out there. I frankly doubt if anyone on the council knows all of the cells and their leaders.”

“You attend the war council meetings, don’t you?”

“I’m allowed to attend general meetings of the war council, but I’m not allowed to vote, and I’m discouraged from attending strategy meetings.”

Buzhazi shook his head in exasperation. “You’re probably the smartest person in that council meeting — why you’re not allowed to participate is a damned mystery to me. Well, it’s your problem, Highness. I’m telling you that your loyalists are part of the problem, not part of the solution. I don’t know if the person with the gun at the other end of the block is an Islamist or one of your loyalists, so I’m going to blow his head off regardless before he tries to do the same to me. That’s not the way I want it, but that’s the way I’ll play it if I have to.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, General.”

“You can, Highness, if you just drag yourself back into the twenty-first century like I know you can,” Buzhazi said, donning his helmet again and pulling the straps tight.

“What?”

“Come on now, Highness — you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Buzhazi said irritably. “You’re a smart woman as well as a natural-born leader. You’ve lived in America most of your life and you’ve obviously learned that the old ways won’t work anymore. You know as well as I that this court of yours and this so-called council of war is what’s hamstringing you. You’ve voluntarily imprisoned yourself in this six-hundred-year-old cage called your ‘court’ and you’ve committed to cede authority to a bunch of spineless cowards — half of which aren’t even in this country right now, am I correct?” He could tell by her expression that he was.

Buzhazi shook his head in disappointment quickly turning to disgust. “Pardon me for saying this, Highness, but get your royal head out of your pretty little ass and get with the program before we all die and our country becomes a mass graveyard,” he said angrily. “You’re the one out here on the streets, Azar. You can see the problems and are smart enough to formulate a response, but you won’t take charge. Why? Because you don’t want your parents to think you’re taking over their thrones? This is the twenty-first century, Azar, for God’s sake, not the fourteenth. Besides, your parents are either dead or cowards themselves if they haven’t shown themselves in almost two—”

“Shut up!” Azar screamed, and before Buzhazi could react, she had spun around and planted her right foot solidly in his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Buzhazi went down on one knee, more embarrassed at being taken by surprise than hurt. By the time he got back on his feet and was able to take at least a half of a normal breath, Mara Saidi was shielding Azar, an automatic machine pistol pointed at him.

“Good kick, Highness,” Buzhazi grunted, rubbing his abdomen. Obviously, he guessed, one of her accommodations for having defects of the hands was her ability to fight with her feet. “The rumors said you could take care of yourself — I see that’s true.”

“The meeting is over, General,” he heard a man say behind him. Buzhazi turned and nodded at Parviz Najar, who had run out of hiding in the blink of an eye and had another machine pistol pointed at him. “Go quickly.”

“After you both lower your weapons,” they heard another voice shout. They all turned to see Major Qolom Haddad hidden behind the rear end of the smoldering truck, an AK-74 rifle leveled at Najar. “I’m not going to repeat myself!”

“Everyone, lower your weapons,” Buzhazi said. “I think we’ve both said what we needed to say here.” No one moved. “Major, you and your men, stand down.”

“Sir—”

“Colonel, Captain, stand down as well,” Azar ordered. Slowly, reluctantly, Najar and Saida complied, and when their weapons were out of sight, Haddad lowered his. “There are no enemies here.”

Buzhazi took his first full deep breath, smiled, nodded again respectfully, then extended his hand. “Highness, it was good to speak with you. I hope we can work together, but I assure you, I’m going to keep fighting.”

Azar took his hand and bowed her head as well. “It was good to speak with you too, General. I have much to think about.”

“Don’t take too long, Highness. Salam aleikom.” Buzhazi turned and headed back to his men, with Haddad and two more soldiers who had been carefully hidden nearby covering his back.

“Peace be unto you as well, General,” Azar called after him.

Buzhazi turned halfway to her, smiled, and called out, “Unlikely, Highness. But thanks anyway.”

Chief of Staff Walter Kordus knocked on the door of the President’s sitting room on the third-floor family residence of the White House. “Sir? She’s here.”

President Gardner looked up over his reading glasses and set down the papers he was reviewing. He had a large flat-screen TV on to a boxing match but with the sound muted. He wore a white shirt and business slacks, with his tie loosened — he rarely wore anything else but business attire until moments before bed. “Good. Where?”

“You said you didn’t want to meet in the West Wing, so I had her brought up to the Red Room — I thought that was appropriate.”

“Cute. But she asked to see the Treaty Room. Have her brought up.”

Kordus took a step into the sitting room. “Joe, are you sure you want to do this? She’s the chairwoman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, probably the most powerful woman in the country besides Angelina Jolie. It’s got to remain business…”

“This is business, Walt,” Gardner said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Got those notes I asked you for?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Good.” Gardner went back to studying his papers. The chief of staff shook his head and departed.

A few minutes later, Gardner made his way down the Center Hall, now wearing his suit jacket, straightening his tie as he walked. Kordus intercepted him and passed him a folder. “Hot off the press. Want me to—?”

“Nope. I think we’re done for the night. Thanks, Walt.” He breezed past the chief of staff and entered the Treaty Room. “Hello, Senator. Thanks for meeting me at this ungodly hour.”

She was standing beside the immense mahogany U. S. Grant Cabinet table, lovingly running her long fingers across the inlaid cherry features. The steward had placed a tray of tea on the coffee table on the other side of the room. Her eyes widened and that camera-magnetizing smile appeared when she saw Gardner enter the room. “Mr. President, it is certainly my honor and privilege to be with you tonight,” Senator Stacy Anne Barbeau said in her famous silky Louisiana accent. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” She stood, embraced the President, and exchanged polite kisses on the cheek. Barbeau wore a white low-cut business suit which subtly but effectively displayed her breasts and cleavage, accented for the evening by a shimmering platinum necklace and dangling diamond earrings. Her red hair bounced as if motorized in tune with her smile and batting eyelashes, and her green eyes flashed with energy. “You know that you may call upon me at any time, sir.”

“Thank you, Senator. Please.” He motioned to a Victorian couch and took her hand as he led her to it, then took an ornate chair to her right, facing the fireplace.

“I hope you give my best to the First Lady,” Barbeau said as she arranged herself just so on the couch. “She’s in Damascus, if I’m not mistaken, attending the international women’s rights conference?”

“Exactly, Senator,” the President said.

“I wish my duties in the Senate would have allowed me to attend,” Barbeau said. “I sent my senior staffer Colleen to attend, and she’s bringing a resolution of support from the full Senate for the First Lady to present to the delegates.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Senator.”

“Please, sir, will you not call me ‘Stacy,’ here in the privacy of the residence?” Barbeau asked, giving him one of her mind-blowing smiles. “I think we’ve both earned the right to a little downtime and relief from the formalities of our offices.”

“Of course, Stacy,” Gardner said. He did not offer to let her call him “Joe,” and she knew enough not to ask. “But the pressure is never really off, is it? Not in our lines of work.”

“I’ve never considered what I do ‘work,’ Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She poured him a cup of tea, then sat back and crossed her legs as she sipped hers. “It’s not always pleasurable, to be sure, but doing the people’s business is never a chore. I suppose the stress is part of what makes one feel alive, don’t you agree?”

“It always seemed to me you thrive on the pressure, Senator,” Gardner commented. He suppressed a grimace after he sipped the tea. “In fact, if I may say so, it looks to me like you enjoy creating a bit of it.”

“My responsibilities many times dictate that I do things above and beyond what most folks might call ‘politic,’” Barbeau said. “We do whatever we need to do in the best interest of our constituents and our country, isn’t that right, Mr. President?”

“Call me Joe. Please.”

Barbeau’s green eyes flashed, and her head bowed without her eyes leaving his. “Why, thank you for the honor…Joe.”

“Not at all, Stacy,” Gardner said with a smile. “You’re right, of course. No one likes to admit it, but the end often justifies the means, as long as the end is a safer and more secure nation.” He picked up a telephone sitting on the Monroe desk. “Could you have the libation table brought to the Treaty Room, please?” He hung up the phone. “It’s after nine P.M., Stacy, and I’m not in the mood for tea. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Joe.” The smile was back, but it was more introspective, more reserved. “I may just join you.”

“I know what might convince you.” A steward brought a rolling table with several crystal decanters. Gardner poured himself a glass of Bacardi Dark on ice and fixed Barbeau a drink. “I thought I read in People magazine that you preferred a ‘Creole Mama,’ correct? I hope I got it right…bourbon, Madeira, and a splash of grenadine, topped with a cherry, right? Sorry, we only have red cherries, not green.”

“You are a real surprise sometimes, Joe,” she said. They touched glasses, their eyes locked together. She tasted hers, her eyes glistened again, and she took a deeper sip. “My my, Mr. President, a little intelligence work, even after hours, and a skilled hand at the bar. I’m again impressed.”

“Thank you.” Gardner took a deep sip of his drink as well. “Not as sophisticated as a Creole Mama, I’m sure, but when you’re a politician from Florida, you’d better know your rum. Cheers.” They touched glasses and sipped their drinks once more. “Do you know the origin of touching glasses, Stacy?”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Barbeau replied. “I didn’t even realize there was an origin to it. It’s not just a cute little noisemaker then?”

“In medieval times, when adversaries met to discuss terms of treaties or alliances, when they drank after negotiations were concluded they tipped a bit of the contents of their cups into the other’s to show neither was poisoned. The custom evolved into a sign of friendship and camaraderie.”

“Why, how fascinating,” Barbeau said, taking another sip, then letting her tongue run across her full lips. “But I certainly hope you don’t see me as an adversary, Joe. I’m anything but. I have been an admirer of yours for years, as was my father. Your political skills are exceeded only by your intelligence, charm, and true dedication to the service of the nation.”

“Thank you, Stacy.” He let his eyes drift across Barbeau’s body as she took another sip. Even as it appeared that she was concentrating on enjoying her drink, she noticed he was looking her over…again. “I knew your father when we were in the Senate together. He was one powerful man, very strong-willed and passionate in his pursuits.”

“He counted you among his most trusted friends, even though you and he were on opposite sides of the political and ideological aisle then,” Barbeau said. “After I was elected to the Senate, he often reminded me that if I wanted some straight talk from the other side, I shouldn’t hesitate to come to you.” She paused, adopting a rather wistful expression. “I wish he was still here now. I could use his strength and wisdom. I love him so much.”

“He was a fighter. A tough opponent. You knew where he stood and he wasn’t afraid to tell you. He was one hell of a man.”

Barbeau put her hand on Gardner’s and pressed it. “Thank you, Joe. You’re a sweet man.” She took an instant to look at him deeply, then let her lips part slightly. “You…look very much like I remember him in his younger, more fiery years, Joe. We had a dining room very much like this in Shreveport, and we used to spend endless hours together, just like this. I wanted to talk politics and he wanted to find out about who I was dating.”

“Daddies and daughters always stay close, eh?”

“He made me tell him my most intimate secrets,” she said, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “I couldn’t deny him anything. He made me tell him everything — and I was a very naughty girl growing up. I dated all the politicians’ boys. I wanted to learn everything about politics: strategies, planning, fund-raising, candidates, issues, alliances. They wanted…” She paused, giving him another sly smile and a bat of her eyes. “…well, you know what they wanted.” Gardner swallowed hard as he imagined what they got from her. “It was a mutually beneficial relationship. Sometimes I think my daddy set me up on some of those dates just so I could be his spy — the Cajun political version of turning your daughter out, I suppose.”

Gardner chuckled, and unconsciously let his eyes roam her body again, and this time Barbeau allowed herself to show that she noticed, smiled, and blushed — she was one of those women who could blush anytime, anywhere, in any situation, at will. He sat back in his chair, wanting to get this meeting under way so they could concentrate on other things, if the opportunity presented itself. “So, Stacy, we both know the issue before us. Where does the White House stand with the Armed Services Committee? Are we going to have a fight over the military budget, or can we come to an agreement and form a united front?”

“Unfortunately we’re more confused than ever, I’m afraid, Joe,” Barbeau replied. She took her hand away, watching a sudden pang of loss cloud his face. “This is all confidential, Mr. President?”

“Of course.” He touched her hand, and her eyes fluttered. “On both sides. Strictly confidential.”

“My lips are sealed.” Barbeau smiled, then put her red lips together, made a locking motion with her long fingers, and tucked the invisible key in the ample cleavage between her breasts. Gardner took that as open permission to look at her chest this time, and he did so liberally. “The committee is in an uproar, Joe. They’re concerned about General McLanahan’s health and well-being, of course. Have you heard anything more about him?”

“Not much. The doctors originally told me not to expect him back to duty for several months. Some kind of heart thing.”

That jibed with what her sources at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center told her, she thought — so far, Gardner wasn’t lying to her. That was a good sign. “For such a strong young man to be suddenly rendered unconscious like that, the stresses of living on that space station and making repeated trips back and forth in the Black Stallion spaceplane must be enormous, far more than anyone could have possibly anticipated.”

“McLanahan’s a tough guy, but you’re right — although he is over fifty and has a family history of heart disease, he was incredibly fit. Shuttle astronauts usually get several days between liftoff and re-entry — McLanahan has taken five round-trips to the space station in the past four weeks. That’s unprecedented, but for the past few months it’s been the norm. We’re restricting travel to the space station and are in the process of doing extensive physicals on everyone involved. We need answers as to what’s happened.”

“But that’s exactly my point, Joe. McLanahan is tough and strong, especially for a middle-aged man, and he’s a combat veteran and national military figure — my God, he’s a hero! — who I’m sure gets regular fitness checkups. Yet he was still incapacitated and God knows what sort of injury he has sustained. It calls into question the safety and utility of the proposed military space plan. For heaven’s sake, Joe, why are we risking good men on such a project? I grant you it’s modern and exotic and exciting, but it’s technology that just hasn’t been perfected and probably won’t be for another ten years — not to mention the fact that it’s four-fifths fewer aircraft and one-tenth the payload for the same money. If a strong guy like General McLanahan is knocked senseless by flying the thing, is it safe for other crewmembers?”

“What does the committee think, Stacy?”

“It’s simple and logical, Joe,” Barbeau said. “It’s not about impressing the folks with global Internet access or half-meter resolution photographs of everyone’s backyards — it’s about creating value and benefit for our country’s defense. As far as I can see, the spaceplanes benefit only the handful of contractors assigned to the project, namely Sky Masters and their subcompanies. We have a dozen different space booster systems with proven track records that can do a better job than the Black Stallion.” She rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, Joe, who else is McLanahan in bed with?”

“Certainly not Maureen Hershel anymore,” Gardner chuckled.

Barbeau rolled her eyes in dramatized disbelief. “Oh, that dreadful woman — I’ll never understand why President Martindale chose her of all people to be his Vice President,” Barbeau retorted. She looked inquisitively, then playfully at Gardner over the rim of her glass, then asked, “Or was the cold-fish routine just for public consumption, Joe?”

“We became close friends because of the demands of the job, Stacy, just business. All the rumors floating around about us are completely bogus.”

Now he was lying, Barbeau thought, but she expected nothing less than a complete and outright denial. “I completely understand how the working conditions in Washington thrust two people together, especially ones who seem complete opposites,” Barbeau said. “Combine power politics with a brewing war in the Middle East and long nights attending briefings and planning sessions, and sparks can fly.”

“Not to mention McLanahan was obviously not getting business done back at home,” Gardner added. They both laughed, and Gardner used that opportunity to clasp Barbeau’s hand again. “He was too busy playing space cadet to pay any attention to her.” He affixed Barbeau with a deep, serious stare. “Look, Stacy, let’s get right down to it, okay? I know what you want — you’ve been lobbying for it since you set foot inside the Beltway. With most of the rest of the Air Force bomber bases destroyed by the Russians in the ’04 Holocaust nuclear attacks, Barksdale Air Force Base is the natural home for a new long-range bomber fleet—”

“If the Pentagon doesn’t keep on dumping money into that dust-bowl desert base in Battle Mountain, black programs in Dreamland — another Nevada base that mostly falls outside congressional oversight, I might point out — or the space station.”

“It’s no secret McLanahan’s stock rose to all-time highs after his actions in the counterattacks against Russia,” Gardner said, “and his pet projects were the unmanned bombers at Battle Mountain, his high-tech laser gizmos at Dreamland, and now the space station. It gave Martindale something to point at and brag to the American people that he devised and supported—”

“Even though President Thomas Thorn was the one who authorized their construction, not Martindale,” Barbeau pointed out.

“Unfortunately, President Thorn will always and forever be known as the president who allowed the Russians to pull off a sneak attack against the United States that killed thirty thousand men, women, and children and injured another quarter million,” Gardner said. “It won’t matter that he was just as interested in high-tech toys as Martindale: Thorn will always be thought of as the weaker president.

“But the question is, what do we think is in the best interest of the American people and national defense, Stacy — these fancy spaceplanes that can’t carry as much as the Secret Service’s Suburbans, or proven technology like stealth bombers, unmanned combat aerial vehicles, and aircraft carriers? McLanahan has convinced Martindale that spaceplanes are better, even though he used unmanned bombers almost exclusively in his attacks on Russia—”

“And as you’ve pointed out many times, Joe,” Barbeau added, “we can’t afford to put all our eggs in one basket again. The Russian attack was so successful because all the bombers were located at a small handful of undefended bases, and unless they’re all in the air, they’re vulnerable to attack. But aircraft carrier battle groups deployed to bases all around the world, or far out at sea, are heavily equipped for self-protection and are far less vulnerable to sneak attack.”

“Exactly,” Gardner said, nodding with pleasure that Barbeau had brought up the aircraft carriers. “That’s the point I’ve been trying to make for all these years. We need a mix of forces — we can’t dump all the money for new weapon systems on one unproven technology. An aircraft carrier battle group is no more expensive that what McLanahan is proposing we spend on these spaceplanes, but they are far more versatile and battle-proven.”

“The Senate Armed Services Committee needs to hear that argument from you and your administration, Joe,” Barbeau said, giving his hand another caress and leaning forward toward him sympathetically, exposing more of her ample cleavage. “McLanahan was the hero of the war to avenge the American Holocaust, but that was in the past. A lot of senators may be afraid to cross McLanahan for fear there will be a backlash against them if the American people wonder why they’re not supporting America’s most famous general. But with McLanahan silenced, if they get the direct support of the President, they’ll be more inclined to break ranks. Now is the time to act. We must do something, and it has to be now, while McLanahan is…well, with all due respect, while the general is out of the picture. Undoubtedly the committee’s confidence in the spaceplane program is rattled. They are much more amenable to a compromise.”

“I think we need to get together on this, Stacy,” Gardner said. “Let’s hammer out a plan that both the committee and the Pentagon will support. We should present a united front.”

“That sounds marvelous, Mr. President, really marvelous.”

“Then I have the full support of the Senate Armed Services Committee?” Gardner asked. “I have allies in the House I can call on too, but the backing of the Senate is crucial. Together, united, we can go before the American people and Congress and make a convincing argument.”

“What if McLanahan pulls out of this? He and that ex-senator astronaut science geek Ann Page are a formidable team.”

“McLanahan is out — he’ll surely retire, or be forced to retire.”

“That man is a bulldog. If he recovers, he won’t retire.”

“If he won’t do it for his own good, he’ll do it because I’ll order him to do it,” Gardner said. “And if he still fights it, I’ll make sure the world understands how dangerous the man has been over the years. He is a loose cannon — the world just doesn’t know about it. The man killed dozens of innocent civilians in Tehran, for Christ’s sake.”

“He did?” She hated to let it slip that the majority leader of the U.S. Senate didn’t know something, but she couldn’t help it. It was a surprise, and she didn’t like surprises. Would Gardner fill her in? “When?”

“On the very mission we were discussing when he had his episode, the operational test mission he was running from the Armstrong Space Station,” Gardner replied. “He set off a missile that released chemical weapons outside an apartment building in Tehran, killing dozens including women and children, and then he attacked a Russian reconnaissance plane with some kind of death ray — probably to cover up the attack on Tehran.”

Thank God Gardner was a blabbermouth. “I had no idea…!”

“That’s not the half of what this joker does, Stacy. I know a dozen different criminal infractions and outright acts of war he’s responsible for over the years — including an attack that probably made Russian president Gryzlov plan the atomic attacks against the United States.”

“What?”

“McLanahan is a loose cannon, a complete wild card,” Gardner said bitterly. “He attacked Russia with absolutely no authorization; he bombed a Russian bomber base simply for personal revenge. Gryzlov was a former Russian bomber pilot — he knew it was an attack against him, a personal attack.” Gardner was on a roll — this was better than the Congressional Research Service, Barbeau thought. “That’s why Gryzlov went after bomber bases in the United States — not because our bombers were any great strategic threat to Russia, but because he was trying to get McLanahan.”

Barbeau’s mouth was open in shock…but at the same time, she was tantalized, even aroused. Damn, she thought, McLanahan seemed like such a milquetoast, a Boy Scout — who the hell knew he was some kind of maverick action hero? That made him more appealing than ever. What else lurked underneath that impossibly quiet, unassuming frame? She had to shake herself out of her sudden reverie. “Wow…”

“The Russians are scared of him, that’s for sure,” Gardner went on. “Zevitin wants me to have him arrested. He demands to know what he’s been doing and what he intends to do with the space station and those spaceplanes. He’s madder than hell, and I don’t blame him.”

“Zevitin sees the space station as a threat.”

“Of course he does. But is that the only damned benefit of the thing? It’s costing us as much as two aircraft carrier battle groups to keep that thing up there…for what? I’ve got to reassure Zevitin that the space stuff is no direct offensive threat to Russia, and I don’t know exactly what the thing can do! I didn’t even know McLanahan was on board the thing!”

“If it’s only a defensive system, I don’t see any reason not to tell Zevitin all there is to tell about the space station, if it’ll help defuse tensions between us,” Barbeau said. “The McLanahan situation may have solved itself.”

“Thank God,” Gardner grunted. “I’m sure for every crime I know McLanahan is guilty of, there are ten more I don’t know about…yet,” Gardner went on. “He’s got weapons at his disposal from dozens of different black research programs that I don’t even fully know about, and I was the damned Secretary of Defense!”

She looked at Gardner carefully. “McLanahan will certainly retire on his own, or you can have him medically retire,” she said. “But he could be even more dangerous to us on the outside.”

“I know, I know. That’s why Zevitin wants him put away.”

“If I can help you put pressure on McLanahan, Joe, just tell me,” Barbeau said sincerely. “I’ll do whatever I can to turn him, or at least make him think about what his opinions mean to others in the government and around the world. I’ll make him realize it’s personal, not just business. I’ll ruin him if he persists, but I’m sure I can convince him to see it our way.”

“If anyone can convince him, Stacy, it’s you.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, each silently asking and answering the questions they dared not verbalize. “So, Stacy, I know this isn’t your first time in the residence. I assume you’ve seen the Lincoln Bedroom before?”

Barbeau’s smile was as hot as a bonfire, and she unabashedly looked Gardner up and down hungrily as if sizing him up in a pickup bar. She slowly rose from her seat. “Yes, I’ve seen it,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “I played there as a young girl when my father was in the Senate. It was a children’s playroom back then. Of course it has an entirely different connotation now — still a playroom, but not for children.”

“It’s still the best fund-raiser in town — twenty-five grand a night per person is the going rate.”

“It’s too bad we’ve been reduced to such tawdry acts, isn’t it?” Barbeau asked. “It spoils the feel of this place.”

“The White House is still a house,” Gardner said distractedly. “It’s impossible for me to see it as more than just a workplace. I haven’t seen a tenth of the rooms in here yet. They tell me there are thirty-five bathrooms here — I’ve seen three. Frankly I don’t have much desire to explore the place.”

“Oh, but you should, Joe,” Barbeau said. “I think you will, when you get over the tumultuous first few months in office and get a chance to relax.”

“If McLanahan can stop stirring the shit, maybe I could.”

She turned, her arms outstretched, looking around the room. “I asked Mr. Kordus if we could meet here, in the Treaty Room, because I don’t recall ever being in here although it’s right next door to the Lincoln Bedroom. But the history in this place is so strong you can feel it. The Treaty Room has been used as a Cabinet meeting room, reception and waiting room, and as the President’s study. It’s historically been the place in the White House where the real political business gets done, even more so than the Oval Office.”

“I’ve had a few informal meetings in here, but mostly the staff uses it.”

“The staff is usually too busy to appreciate the energy that flows through this room, Joe,” Barbeau said. “You should take the time to sense it.” With her arms still outstretched, she closed her eyes. “Imagine: Ulysses S. Grant conducting his half-drunken Cabinet meetings here, followed by a card game and arm-wrestling matches with his friends; Teddy Roosevelt nailing animal hides to the walls; Kennedy signing the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty here, then days later seducing Marilyn Monroe in the same place, right down the hall from where his wife and children slept.”

Gardner stepped behind her and lightly put his hands on her waist. “I never heard that story before, Stacy.”

She took his hands and pulled them around her waist, drawing him closer. “I just made that last one up, Joe,” she said in a whisper, so quiet that he moved his cheek to hers and pulled her tightly to him to hear. “But I’ll bet it happened. And who knows what a man like Kevin Martindale did in here after his divorce — the divorce that should have wrecked his political career but only enhanced it — with all his Hollywood starlets flitting in and out of here all the time at all hours?” She took his hands, swirled them around her belly, then took his fingers and gently lifted them to her breasts, encircling her nipples. She could feel his body stiffen and could practically hear his mind whirring as he tried to decide what to do about her sudden advance. “He probably had a different bitch in here every night of the year.”

“Stacy…” She could feel Gardner’s breath on her neck, his hands gently caressing her breasts, barely touching…

Barbeau whirled around toward him and roughly pushed him away. “Martindale was an imbecile, Joe, but he spent two terms as president and two terms as vice president and became a damned fixture in the White House — and he got to fuck Hollywood starlets in here! What are you going to do to beat that, Joe?”

Gardner was frozen in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you, Stacy?” he finally managed to blurt out.

“What is it you want, Mr. President?” Barbeau asked loudly. “What is your game plan? Why are you here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re the President of the United States of America. You live in the White House…but you’ve only used three bathrooms? You don’t know what’s been done in this room, this house, the enormous history of this place? You have a three-star general under your command that has twice the voter approval rating you do, with a heart condition no less, and he’s still in uniform? There’s a space station orbiting the planet that you don’t want and it’s still up there? You have a woman in your arms but you touch her like some sweaty lovestruck adolescent on his first date trying to get to second base? Maybe all you really did with Maureen Hershel is ‘business,’ is that it?”

Gardner was flustered, then angry, then indignant. “Listen, Senator, this is no damned game. You’re hot as hell, but I came here to discuss business.”

“You’ve been honest with me since I called you for this meeting, Joe — don’t fucking lie to me now,” Barbeau snapped, taking one step away from him and letting her green eyes bore into him. Her sudden change in persona, from seductress to barracuda, startled him. “I didn’t have to threaten you to invite me to the residence; I didn’t drag you down that hallway and into this room. We’re not children here. We’re talking about joining forces to get an important job done, even if it means siding with the Russians and ruining a distinguished military career. What did you think we’d do — shake hands on it? Sign a contract? Cross our hearts and hope to die? Not on your life. Now, if you don’t want to do this, you let me know right now, and we’ll both go back to our offices and responsibilities and forget this meeting ever took place.”

“What is this shit—?”

“Don’t give me the innocent-waif routine either, Gardner. I know this is the way politics is played in Louisiana — don’t tell me you’ve never played it like this in Florida or Washington. We’re going to do it, right here, right now, or you can just tuck your tail between your legs and crawl back to your nice safe cozy apartment down the hall. What’s it going to be?” When he didn’t answer, she sighed, shook her head, and tried to step around him…

…but when she felt his arm across her chest and his hand on her breast, she knew she had him. He pulled her close, grasped her behind the head with his other hand, and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply, roughly. She returned the kiss just as forcibly, her hand finding his crotch, massaging him impatiently. Their lips parted, and she smiled at him confidently, assuredly. “That’s not going to be enough, Mr. President, and you know it,” she said. She smiled at his quizzical expression, darkly this time, confidently, and his mouth opened when he realized what she meant, what she wanted. “Well?”

He scowled at her, then moved his hands back to her breasts, then to her shoulders, pushing her down. “Let’s seal the deal, Senator,” he said, leaning back against the Grant conference table, steadying himself.

“Good boy. Get over here.” She dropped to her knees and quickly began to undo his belt and pants. “My, my, look what we have here. Are you sure you don’t have a little coonass in you, Mr. President?” He didn’t reply as she began her vigorous, rhythmic ministrations.