Strike Force

CHAPTER 5

As the old line went: It was quiet…too quiet.

General Mansour Sattari and his task force had captured or eliminated almost three full platoons of guards on their way to the Pasdaran warehouses outside Arān. So far the operation was going precisely as planned…

…which made the general very, very nervous indeed. Even though the objective was in sight and so far they had suffered no casualties and met numerous but weak resistance, Sattari couldn’t suppress the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

“I don’t like it, Babak,” Sattari said to his aide, Master Sergeant Babak Khordad, as they received the final report from the scouts. Khordad was an old crusty veteran when Sattari picked him over fifteen years ago to run his staff, and he hadn’t changed much — which was exactly the way the general preferred it. Even his name, which meant “little father” in Farsi, still accurately described him. “The reports were completely accurate: the warehouses are virtually unguarded. That has me worried — rumors and unverified reports from the field are never that accurate, unless they’re planted by the enemy.”

“They have a large number of guards, sir,” Khordad said, “but they look to me like children. It’s as if they emptied out the conscripts’ training centers before they barely began, gave them a weapon and uniform, and put them to work guarding these warehouses.”

“I agree,” Sattari said. “Where are the front-line Pasdaran forces, Babak?”

“We do have reports stating that the Pasdaran is concentrating forces in the capital,” Khordad said. “Maybe the new government is pulling in all the well-trained troops to protect them at home.”

“Maybe,” Sattari mused.

“If you don’t feel right about this one, sir, let’s pull everyone out,” Khordad said. “If it smells like a trap, it probably is.”

“But we’ve got two hundred men surrounding this area checking in every three minutes, and no one has spotted any sign of the front-line Pasdaran forces,” Sattari said. “Not even one helicopter in the past hour. From where we are now, we could completely empty three warehouses and be on the rail line heading into the system before the outer perimeter scouts spotted anything.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Khordad said. “I still say, let’s withdraw and continue monitoring.”

“Our intel says the Pasdaran is going to start emptying these warehouses in the next two days,” Sattari said. “They have the trucks and locomotives waiting — it’s going to happen soon. So far our intel has been spot-on. Besides, we’re running low on everything back at the base. We’ve got to do this tonight or it’ll be too late.”

“That’s when it’s the worst time to do something, sir,” Khordad said.

Sattari peered through his low-light binoculars again, scanning for any sign of a trap, but he saw and heard absolutely nothing. He had to press on. With a dozen heavy cargo trucks filled, they had enough supplies to keep their insurgency going for another month. That could spell the difference between success and failure.

But the “little father” was worried — there was danger here. Why couldn’t he see it? “Maybe the Pasdaran has suffered so many losses, captures, and defections that soft targets like these warehouses were being lightly guarded?” he suggested. “Maybe they really are afraid of lingering chemical weapons effects…”

“They know as well as we do what the persistence time of those chemical agents are, sir,” Khordad said. “And their detection equipment is better than ours. If it was safe, they’d be here. Something’s happening that we don’t know about.”

“Could the warehouses be booby-trapped?”

“Very likely, sir, although we saw a lot of those guards going in and out rather freely,” Khordad said. “It’s usually dangerous to turn initiators on and off whenever someone walks in and out like that — you’ll soon forget if you shut it off or not.”

Sattari swore to himself, then picked up his radio. “Spider to Wolf.”

“Go,” General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi responded.

“We’ve arrived at point ‘Kangaroo.’ ‘Bedroom’ in sight, but I’m recommending we head back to the ‘nursery.’ Our ‘album’ is incomplete. Over.”

“Understood. Bring it on back. We’ll take better pictures later. Wolf out.”

“Okay, Master Sergeant,” Sattari said, putting away his command radio, “let’s set up the patrols and position for exfiltration before…”

“Shit, what is he doing?” Khordad swore. Sattari lifted his night-vision binoculars. A squad of men had broken from cover and had bolted for their assigned warehouse, while another squad was commandeering trucks.

“Call them back, damnit!”

Khordad was already raising his radio to his lips: “Shark, Shark, this is Spider, get back! We’re heading back to ‘nursery.’ Acknowledge right now.”

“Spider, we’re in, we’re in!” came the reply. “It’s all here, Spider, lined up and ready to load. We can have a truck loaded in two minutes.”

“I said get out of there!” Khordad growled through clenched teeth, trying to communicate the urgency without raising his voice. “Acknowledge!”

“Spider, this is Bear,” another squad leader radioed. “We’re in too. We’ve started loading two carriages already and the others are moving inside. We’ve already filled our baby bottles all the way. Recommend we proceed. Over.”

“Sir?” Khordad asked.

“Let’s get out of here, Babak,” Sattari said. “There will be other targets. This one looks poisonous. Bring them out now.”

“Negative! Negative! Withdraw!” Khordad radioed. “Spider’s orders. All squads, acknowledge!”

“Spider, this is Pony, we’re in too,” yet another squad leader radioed. “Let us play for just a few minutes more. This is the real party, and we want to stay for the cake.”

Sattari grabbed Khordad’s radio and mashed the mike button: “All squads, this is Spider, I ordered you to withdraw, and that means right now! Get your asses moving and report at point Parlor. Do not acknowledge, just move out!” He tossed the radio back to Khordad and began scrambling out of their hiding place toward the perimeter fence. “Damn them! What a time for a discipline breakdown! I know they’re hungry and running low on everything, but they should know better than to…”

“Sir, wait!” Khordad interrupted, holding his radio close to his ear. “I thought I heard another call.”

Sattari raised his own radio to his ear and listened intently. “Another squad?”

“I think it was one of the scouts, sir…”

And at that moment they heard over their radios: “Spider, Spider, this is Sparrow, reporting in the blind, I say again, warning, warning, lightning storm, lightning storm, call the children in, repeat, call the children in!”

“Ridan!” Sattari cursed. On his radio, he and Khordad both frantically called, “All Spider units, all Spider units, lightning storm, lightning storm, take cover!” Sattari then leaped to his feet, pulling Khordad and their security guard up onto their feet and pushing them toward the hole in the outer perimeter fence about fifty meters away. “Move it, move it!” he shouted. “Shoot anyone that gets in your…!”

Sattari didn’t hear the rest…because the entire warehouse complex erupted in a brilliant tidal wave of fire seconds later.

From a dozen launch sites — some as far as fifteen kilometers away — multiple volleys of artillery, rockets, and guided missiles bombarded the warehouse complex all at once. Not only was every warehouse building individually targeted and completely obliterated, but the entire complex — parking lots, storage bins, loading ramps, fences, barracks, offices, and service buildings — were bracketed. Within two minutes, every square centimeter of the entire twenty-acre complex was hit multiple times.

In moments, it was over — and not one thing was left standing in or around the complex.

After checking in with his supervisors by telephone, commander-in-chief of the Iranian armed forces General Hoseyn Yassini emerged from his quarters on the campus of the Imam Ali Military Academy in Tehran and began his early evening stroll across the grounds. He immediately identified at least one shadow, a young man dressed as a first-year cadet. He was far too young to be Pasdaran. More likely he was a komiteh officer, a religious-political functionary whose job it was to observe and report on any activities that might be considered a threat to the clerical regime. Like the zampolit political officers in the old Soviet Union, komiteh officers pervaded every level of Iranian life, watching and reporting on everyone from ordinary citizens on the streets to the highest levels of government. They were an abomination in a place like this military academy, but under the theocratic regime their presence was as demoralizing as it was pervasive.

Yassini’s usual evening stroll while on restriction was down the wide sidewalks of the main cluster of buildings to the parade grounds, a couple kilometers of mostly well-lit, open areas. Formerly known as the Shah Reza Pahlavi Military Academy when Yassini attended here, it was changed to the Imam Ali Academy after the revolution. A few cadets were still on the streets. Yassini enjoyed stopping them and, after the initial shock of meeting the chief of staff wore off, speaking with them and learning about their studies and training while attending the school. For the most part, the cadets were eager, respectful, proud to be wearing the uniform, and determined to spend the next twenty to thirty years in service to the Faqih and their country. Thankfully, none of them seemed to know that he was here on house arrest or why, or if they did they didn’t show any signs of displeasure.

After passing the main cluster of classroom buildings, Yassini came upon a large square courtyard, surrounded by the cadets’ barracks buildings. This was the Esplanade, or brigade assembly area, where the cadet units would gather and form up before marching off to class, functions, drills, or parades. At other times, the assembly area was used in that age-old custom familiar to cadets from all over the world for eons — marching off demerit points. Before any cadet could graduate from the Academy, he had to spend one hour marching back and forth in the assembly area for every point he had accumulated, dressed in full uniform and carrying an assault rifle. While marching, he could be grilled by any upperclassman on the Koran, any knowledge item, or critiqued on the condition of his uniform, and additional demerit points could be awarded. Cadets marched off points at any time of the day or night, in any weather, sometimes for an entire weekend if necessary to clear away demerits before graduation.

Hoseyn Yassini was a good student and leader, but he was a terrible cadet, and he spent many, many hours on this dark marble square, either marching the demerits off or scrubbing it clean, which was another acceptable way of working off demerits. Being out here as a young officer gave him a clearer sense of duty and honor, and also sharpened his mind in preparation for the grilling he knew he would get.

But he was not out here because of some nostalgic wish to visit, or coming here restored his soul of any lost humility or discipline.

The assembly area had a small booth where a cadet officer was assigned to take down the name and unit of any cadet who arrived to march off demerits and to make sure the cadets performed properly while out here, and Yassini strolled over to the booth to chat with the cadet officer on duty. The cadet snapped to his feet and saluted as soon as he saw the general approach. “Cadet Sergeant Beheshi, Company Joqd, sir.”

Yassini returned his salute. “Good evening, Cadet Sergeant,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

“Very well, sir, thank you,” the cadet responded. “I hope you are well tonight, sir.”

“I am, thank you.”

“May I serve you in any way, General?”

“I was wondering, Cadet Sergeant: are you happy here at the Academy?”

The question took the cadet by surprise, but as expected he recovered very quickly: “I am proud and honored to serve the Supreme Leader and the people of the Islamic Republic, sir,” he replied, reciting the typical Academy mantra taught to every cadet from the moment they stepped foot on campus.

“I can see you are, Cadet Sergeant, but I’m asking you: are you happy here?”

Obviously the cadet didn’t like the question or its implications, because he uncharacteristically stammered: “I…I…yes, sir, I am very happy here.”

“What field do you wish to serve in upon graduation?”

“I will serve at the pleasure of the Supreme Leader and the people…”

“No, Cadet, I mean, what service do you want? Surely you have a particular desire? A specific specialty?”

The cadet still looked flustered, but he smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. I wish to be a Special Forces commando, possibly even a Revolutionary Guards Corps brigade commander.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because I believe it is vital to pursue the enemy beyond our own borders,” the cadet responded. “I do not wish to wait for the enemy to be upon us before we fight back — I want to destroy the enemy before he even leaves his base. Even better, destroy him before he leaves his home — destroy him while he’s in his home!”

Yassini was taken aback by this show of utter ruthlessness. “So you wish to kill noncombatants even if no war is declared?”

The cadet’s eyes looked a little panic-stricken. “I hope I haven’t offended you, sir,” he said.

“No, not at all. Anything we say here is between us soldiers.” He could see the relief in the cadet’s eyes even in the dim light. “So, killing the enemy’s family in their homes is how you wish to fight?”

“Yes, sir. I wish to see the terror in their faces as I dispatch them. I wish to see the faces of their neighbors, families, and friends when they find their slashed corpses lying in their beds. The horror of such an attack multiplies the power of the state a thousandfold.”

“Is that what they teach you here, Cadet?”

“Absolutely, sir. Concepts of asymmetric warfare, commando operations, guerrilla warfare, psychological combat…it is my favorite area of study. We take lessons from all of the guerrilla armies around the world throughout recent history — Hizb’ Allah, Islamic Jihad, Fatah, Hamas, Mehdi Army, al-Qaeda, the Viet Cong, the Tamil Tigers — study them, and adapt them to modern-day scenarios and equipment.”

“Interesting. But what about areas such as air defense, border security, the submarine service, or land warfare?”

“Those are fine areas of study, sir — for women,” the cadet responded. “Fear is the great multiplier, sir. You can detect and pursue a submarine, tank, or aircraft — but no one has yet developed a sensor or defense against fear. Create fear in the mind and heart of the enemy, and you almost don’t need a bullet or bomb to kill him.”

“But attacking noncombatants…?”

“All the better, sir. A soldier will not think about his unit or duty if he feels his family is in danger. That gives us the advantage.”

My God, Yassini thought, is this really what the Academy is teaching its students these days? In his day, the Academy taught leadership, history, and tactics, not murder.

“I must do my rounds and report to my superior officer, sir,” the cadet said. “Please stay here if you wish. I will have some tea brought from the mess.”

“Thank you, Cadet. I think I will stay awhile longer. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Cadet Sergeant.”

“The pleasure was mine, sir. Good evening.” He saluted and departed.

A few minutes later, just as Yassini was thinking about heading back to his quarters for the evening, an orderly arrived with a large copper pot of tea and a basket of cups, sugar, and cinnamon sticks. “Thank you, sir,” Yassini said as the orderly poured.

“So, you old fart, the new generation has you a little bewildered and flustered, eh?” the orderly asked. Yassini looked at him in surprise…and saw none other than General Hesarak Buzhazi smiling back at him. He was dressed in servants’ robes and pants, but he could see his combat boots under his robe and perhaps the bulge of a weapon underneath. “Disappointed no one wants to fly helicopters or go up against stealth bombers and smart missiles anymore?”

“What in hell are you doing here, you crazy idiot? The entire country is out looking for you.”

“The Academy is the last place they’d look, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. He looked at Yassini seriously. “I told you they were going to retaliate against you, Hoseyn, and now here you are, on house arrest. Why are you just standing around like some pea-brained sheep waiting for the slaughter? You should get out of here now, before you have more than just one brainless snot-nosed komiteh goon on your ass.”

“Did you kill him too?”

“I didn’t have to. He is gone beating off or something — he thought you were just going out on your evening constitutional and left. That’s the kind of idiots Zolqadr has working for him. Why the hell don’t you get away from here, Hoseyn? They think you’re just a scared tottering old man. Save yourself while you can.”

“I should take career management advice from you, the most wanted man in the entire damned country? That would be hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic. What in the world are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember? ‘Let’s march off a few’—that’s what you said. I’ve been waiting for you ever since.”

“No, I mean, what are you still doing in Iran?” Yassini asked. “Haven’t you done enough damage to the country?”

“I’m not finished, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “The Pasdaran is like a typhoon — as long as it’s unopposed, even by the smallest hill or tree, it will grow stronger, its path will become more unpredictable, and it will destroy more and more lives. I plan to stop it.”

“You have about as much chance of doing that as stopping a real typhoon,” Yassini said. “Can’t you see that?”

“Some things are worth dying for, Hoseyn: freedom from betrayal, freedom from persecution, freedom to live our lives with dignity and honor. I’m doing something about it. What I don’t understand is how you can even stand the stench of being around Pasdaran butchers after what happened last night.”

“I heard,” Yassini said gloomily. “Typical Pasdaran tactics — disregard friendly forces in the target area, disregard taking prisoners, and kill everyone in the area. Monstrous.”

“‘Monstrous?’ That’s all you have to say? There was an entire company of security guards in that warehouse complex, some just teenage conscripts with barely any training! They’re all dead! They were obliterated in a massive artillery attack designed to kill every living thing in the entire area!”

“I had nothing to do with planning, authorizing, or executing that attack.”

“I never thought you did, Hoseyn, but the question is: what are you going to do now?”

“What can I do about it?”

“You’re the damned chief of staff, Hoseyn!” Buzhazi retorted. “Call out the army, disperse them to operational areas outside the cities, and tell Zolqadr and whoever else is in charge that you will send them into the cities and crush the Pasdaran if they don’t lay down their arms and stop this madness!”

“They will never lay down their weapons,” Yassini said. “The fact is, Hesarak, that you have driven them to execute such extreme operations! They would never have done it if you and your insurgent forces had just gotten out of the country instead of embarking on this insane plot.”

“Hoseyn, this is only the beginning,” Buzhazi said. “They will stop at nothing now. They won’t just be chasing me — they’ll be going after every soldier and soon every civilian that doesn’t toe the fundamentalist line just so. You’ve condemned millions of Iranians to death because of your inaction. And when they’re done in Iran, they’ll spread out over the entire region, perhaps the entire planet.”

“Don’t blame this on me, Buzhazi! It’s you who started this, not me! The deaths of the innocents will be on your head, not mine!”

“At least I’m doing something about it, Hoseyn. My death won’t be as horrible as the one you are condemning Iran and the world to with your silence and inaction.” Yassini didn’t — couldn’t — answer that. “Do it, Hoseyn — now, tonight, before it’s too late. Call out the army and disperse them to the countryside. The Pasdaran is too involved in hunting me down to guard every base across the country. You’ll only get one chance at this. Do it tonight.”

“That’s treason, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “That’s a crime, punishable by public beheading.”

“The people and the armed forces will suffer much worse if the ayatollahs unleash the Pasdaran on the cities,” Buzhazi said. “Do it, now.”

Yassini paused…then shook his head, and Buzhazi’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. “You realize that I have to report this contact, don’t you?” Yassini said instead. “I have no choice. I could be executed just for the very thought of being seen with you.”

“Then why did you want to meet here, Hoseyn?” Buzhazi asked. “I know the reason — you’re unsure of what to do. I’ll tell you what you should do, my friend — get out and come with me, now. I have a squad with me standing by that can get us all out safely. I have more men ready to get your family out of the capital as well.”

Yassini turned and looked away, out onto the assembly area. “You know I can’t do that, Hesarak,” he said after a long, quiet moment.

“You’re a fool, Hoseyn.”

“I’m not like you, Hesarak. I believe in my country and its leaders, right or wrong. They may not be perfect — they may not even be right. But I’m a soldier, and I’m sworn to live by my oath and defend this nation. You may think I’m crazy or suicidal, but that’s what I have to do.” He took a deep breath, turned, then said, “And part of my duty is to call for the guards and…”

But it was too late — when he turned to look at his old friend, he was gone — most certainly for the last time.

General Yassini took his time walking back to his quarters, but upon arriving he immediately picked up the phone. He didn’t have to dial any numbers — he knew someone was listening and would inform Zolqadr right away. He probably didn’t even need to pick up the phone — the entire apartment was probably bugged, like the phone.

“This is General Yassini,” he spoke. “I would like to report contact with a known wanted criminal, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, near the assembly yard duty officer’s station on the Imam Ali Military Academy campus, just a few minutes ago. He said he was here with a squad of men. He was dressed as an orderly or kitchen laborer. He did not appear armed, but he should be considered armed and dangerous.”

General Yassini shook his head as he hung up the phone. Poor bastard, he thought — Buzhazi doesn’t have a chance, and he still doesn’t realize it.

“I hope everyone realizes that we’re not going to be making this a regular thing,” Hunter Noble said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. He had already bumped his helmet on the canopy a dozen times, and he dreaded having to touch any switch in the cockpit. Not only was he bumping into things, but he wasn’t even in his seat — he had been relegated to the mission commander’s seat, the dreaded “Guy in Back,” for the second time.

“Quit your complaining, Boomer — I think this is very cool,” “Nano” Benneton said, strapped into the passenger module of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. “I think making you ride bitch every now and then keeps you humble.”

“I let the general fly his mission in the front seat,” Boomer said. “I’m still trying to live that one down too.” It was also the first time he had ever worn a spacesuit in the cockpit of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, so he was feeling doubly uncomfortable. It was an older-style Skylab-type spacesuit, a design at least thirty years old, the first series of spacesuits not custom-fitted for a particular astronaut — and it felt like it too. Underneath the suit was a thin mesh garment with fluids circulating through tubes to help keep the wearer comfortable, and under the helmet he wore the classic “Mickey Mouse” cap — style headset. The suit was not yet pressurized, and Boomer still had complete mobility in it, but he still groused. He had to put it on hours earlier and seal it up so he could pre-breathe pure oxygen, and then he had to suffer the indignation of having to be helped into the cockpit by Nano and the smiling, laughing ground crew. “I can’t see or feel a thing, it’s noisy, I can’t hear the radios, and it smells. The cockpit pressurization system is just fine.”

“Boomer, if I hear you complain about the suit one more time, you’re staying on the ground,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan radioed from the Dreamland command center.

“I know, sir, I know,” Boomer responded.

“Poor baby’s got to wear a spacesuit,” Ann Page said, chuckling. She was seated with Nano in the passenger module. “Get over it, Boomer.”

“Hey, you old farts had to wear them all the time,” Boomer argued. “This is the twenty-first century. Our stuff works.”

“Captain, you are about to experience the thrill of a lifetime — enjoy it,” Colonel Kai Raydon said. He was in the front seat as pilot of the XR-A9. Raydon was a little over average height — which meant tall for an astronaut — with short blond hair and quick, piercing blue eyes. Everyone found it amusing that Raydon’s fingers were always in motion, as if he couldn’t wait to start flipping switches or entering instructions into a computer. “We are going to knock your socks off this morning, I guarantee it.”

Although designed for six passengers, the Black Stallion’s passenger module was loaded to capacity with supplies and equipment, so Benneton and Page had absolutely no room to move about even if they wanted to do so. The rear of the module contained all their supplies, and they were seated in the middle row. The front of the module was mostly occupied by a large flexible tube attached to the top of the module. This was the docking adapter and transfer tunnel. Like many of the systems and procedures they would use on this flight, the adapter had never been operationally tested either. It was definitely going to be a day full of firsts.

“I can’t wait, sir,” Boomer said moodily. “Really, I can’t.” He checked his readouts when an alert tone sounded. “Computer’s started the pre-engine start checklist, crew,” he announced. Things happened quickly after that, and before long the Black Stallion was airborne.

Because this was going to be a different kind of mission, the insertion into orbit was anything but typical. After refueling over the Pacific Ocean as normal, Boomer flew the Black Stallion on a steep climb and descent across the North Pole, then over the Norwegian Sea and North Sea just off the coast of Scotland, where they rendezvoused with another modified KC-77 tanker and refueled once again. They then turned north and cruised off the coast of Norway as directed by the flight computers, awaiting the proper time for orbital insertion. At the proper moment, the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines flared to life, and the Black Stallion propelled itself once again into space.

It was soon obvious that this was not another typical orbital insertion mission — the boost burn lasted several minutes longer than normal, and the view from the cockpit was completely different. The difference in altitude was striking. “Well, this looks weird,” was all Boomer could say. The sense of altitude and the sight of so much more of the Earth was unnerving, like looking down from a very tall bridge while standing on the edge of a very narrow catwalk.

“Coming up on the last normal orbital abort point,” Dave Luger said.

“Everyone okay?” Boomer asked, forgetting for the umpteenth time that the aircraft commander called for checklists to be completed, not the “Guy In Back. Station check and give me a green light to continue.” At this point if there was some sort of problem they could execute a deorbit burn, come out of orbit, and still have enough fuel to make a normal landing at a good variety of airports. If they went past this point with the main engines still boosting them higher, their options quickly decreased. But everyone reported all systems normal, so they continued.

It happened with amazing speed: five minutes past a normal burn period, Boomer got a flashing warning message on his supercockpit display. “Cripes, just fifteen minutes to bingo fuel,” he muttered. “Normally we’d be getting ready to land by now — we haven’t even completed our insertion burn yet.”

“It’s going to be a close one, crew,” Dave Luger said. “We’re watching the burn curve carefully, and so far we’re just a few percent under it. About ten minutes to the emergency abort point.”

“Too much information, General,” Raydon said. “We’re committed — there’s no emergency abort.” Everyone knew he was correct: they could make it back to Earth intact, but exactly which runway they’d land on — or even if there was a runway nearby — was unknown. Their best — and soon their only — hope was to make the trip as planned.

It seemed to take forever, but soon the “leopards” engines shut down, and the ship went from a sustained, loud roar to complete silence within milliseconds. “Two hundred and fifteen miles up,” Boomer breathed. “I didn’t think it would make that big a difference, but it does.” He looked at the fuel readings, then told himself not to bother looking any longer — they were dismal. Their fuel was nearly exhausted, and they still had one large LPDRS burn to do to slow the Black Stallion down from its current “chase” speed to a speed slow enough for the crew to use maneuvering thrusters to position the spaceplane.

The telemetry readouts showed them exactly how far they had to go and how long it would take to get there, so there were absolutely no surprises, but Boomer found himself staring out the canopy side windscreens for their objective. The glare of the Earth against the darkness of space made scanning the horizon difficult. “Man, it’s easy to see the station at night — I’ve even seen it at late afternoon,” he said, “but I can’t see it now.”

“Be patient, Boomer,” Raydon said. “Don’t anticipate. If we start chasing it, even subconsciously, we’ll run out of fuel. Relax.” It was easier said than done, but Boomer forced himself to close his eyes and recite his Transcendental Meditation mantra to help calm him down.

It obviously helped, because Boomer found himself awakened by the warning tone that the computer was beginning the pre-rendezvous checklist. Moments later the thrusters activated to flip the Black Stallion around so it was flying tail-first, and shortly afterward the LPDRS engines flared briefly to life. Soon the speed of the station and the spaceplane were just a few miles an hour different. “Okay, Colonel, she’s all yours,” Patrick radioed.

“Roger that,” Raydon said. Using the opposite set of thrusters in order not to deplete too much propellant from one set of maneuvering engines, Raydon carefully nudged the Black Stallion up and around until they were facing the direction of flight again…

…and Boomer felt himself take a deep, excited breath as their objective came into sight. My God, he breathed, it’s beautiful…!

At magnitude minus-6, the Armstrong Space Station was fifty percent brighter than the planet Venus in the night sky — only the sun and moon were brighter. It was so bright that quite often the light reflecting off its solar panels, radar arrays, antennae, and reflective anti-laser outer skin cast shadows on Earth. Boomer knew all that and had studied and even photographed “Silver Tower” through a telescope as a kid. But seeing it this close was breathtaking.

The main cluster of four large habitats was arranged perpendicular to Earth’s horizon, which gave it its “Tower” nickname, with a short service, storage, and mechanical spar horizontal. It had four rows of solar power — generating panels on the upper half, each over four hundred feet long and forty feet wide. Two large remote manipulator arms were visible, ready to assist loading and unloading cargo and inspecting all of the modules.

The lower half of the station below the keel had two rows of electronically scanned phased-array radar antennae each over a thousand feet long and fifty feet wide, resembling a delicate ribbon floating in mid-air. This radar, the largest ever built, could detect and track thousands of stationary and moving targets as small as an automobile on land, in the sky, in space, and even hundreds of feet underwater and dozens of feet underground. A number of smaller antennae for signals collection, datalinks, and station self-defense surveillance were mounted on arms connected to the keel. Atop the tower was another device Boomer knew was the station self-defense system, nicknamed “Thor,” but it had been destroyed and had been mostly removed.

“Can you see it, Boomer?” Ann Page asked. “How does it look?”

“It looks…lonely,” Boomer replied. He knew exactly what Ann was asking about — and it wasn’t the space station.

At the very “bottom” of the station below the keel and radar arrays was a single module almost as long as the upper “tower” of the station itself. It was actually four separate modules that had been lofted up to the station by the Shuttle Transportation System over a period of three years. This was Skybolt, the world’s first space-based anti-missile laser, designed and engineered by Ann Page and a team of over a hundred scientists.

Skybolt was a large free-electron laser, powered by a small nuclear-fueled generator called a magnetohydrodynamic generator, or MHD, that produced massive amounts of power for short periods of time. The generator cranked an electrostatic turbine that shot an electron beam — a focused, intense bolt of lightning — through to the laser chamber. Inside the laser chamber a bank of powerful electromagnets “wiggled” the electron beam, thereby producing the lasing effect. The resultant laser beam was millions of times more powerful than the energy generated by the MHD, creating a tunable and extremely powerful beam in the megawatt range that could easily destroy objects in space for thousands of miles and, as Ann and her crew soon discovered, even damage targets as large as a warship on Earth’s surface, or aircraft flying through Earth’s atmosphere.

“Good. That’s good,” Ann cooed. “What are we waiting for, Kai? Let’s hook up and get aboard.”

“Hold your water, Senator,” Raydon said. “I don’t like distractions when I’m flying, so everyone pipe down. That’s an order.” He flexed his fingers one more time, then unstowed the thruster controls and carefully placed his hands on them. Resembling small bathtub faucet knobs, the controls could be twisted, pushed, pulled, and jockeyed sideways or up and down to activate the small hydrazine thrusters arrayed around the Black Stallion. The controls were “standardized,” meaning that the same manual controls had been used in manned spacecraft since Mercury and extending all the way to the Black Stallion.

With the closure rate now less than five miles an hour between the spaceplane and the station, Raydon activated the exterior cameras and began his approach. Armstrong Station had two docking points, one designed for manned spacecraft such as the Shuttle and USS America spaceplane, and one for unmanned cargo modules such as Agena. The docking port for manned spacecraft was on the side of the upper “tower,” about halfway between the top of the tower and the keel.

Raydon began by flying the Black Stallion beside the tower directly opposite from the docking port, then gently stopping the spaceplane so the port was slightly behind his left shoulder but clearly visible out the side windscreen. There was an electronic positioning device straight ahead, but several pieces were missing and the indicators were dark. “Looks like the positioning target has been damaged,” Raydon said.

“Thank the Russians for that,” Ann said. “Their ‘Elektron’ spaceplanes did a lot…”

“I said, be quiet,” Raydon interrupted. “I didn’t want to chat, Senator. Button it.” Ann shook her head and snorted her frustration so hard it briefly fogged the inside of her helmet. “I’ll just have to line it up by feel and guide it in after I translate.” Raydon made a few more barely perceptible adjustments with the controls. The only sound anyone heard was the briefest of puffs from the thrusters. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the Black Stallion started a roll to the left so the top of the spaceplane was pointed at the station.

Just then, they heard a strange humming noise. Boomer checked his readouts — everything was normal. “Crew, station check,” he ordered.

“Quiet, Captain.”

“I hear a funny sound.”

“That’s me, Noble. Now be quiet.” Sure enough, a moment later the humming sound came back, getting louder and louder as Raydon nudged the Black Stallion ever so slowly toward the tower. “Clear the docking tunnel, Senator,” he said.

“Tunnel’s clear.”

“I asked you to clear it, not talk!” Raydon snapped. “What part of ‘be quiet’ don’t you jokers understand?” Ann had to bite her tongue to keep silent. “Okay, Captain, extend the tunnel…slowly.” Boomer hit a switch, and the docking tunnel extended out the top of the spaceplane. “Stop.” Raydon made a few more imperceptible adjustments. “Okay, extend…stop.” Another nudge of the controls; then they heard a deep “CLUUNK!” and four sharp snaps. “Contact, locks engaged,” Raydon said. “Senator, double-check your suit status lights, and tell me what they say.” Silence. Raydon waited a moment longer, then said irritably, “You can talk now, all of you.”

“Four green, no red,” Ann Page said. “My, Colonel, what a fart you are.”

“Thank you, Senator. I’m just doing my job. Lieutenant?”

“Four green, no red. I’ve double-checked Ann’s controls — she’s ready.”

“I’ve checked Nano’s controls,” Ann said. “She’s good to go.”

“Roger. Captain?”

“I’ve got four green, no red,” Boomer responded. “I’m ready.”

“Roger. I’m showing four green, no red. Flight crew is ready for cabin depressurization, and passenger module is ready for equalization with the transfer module. Senator, Lieutenant, ready to go?”

“We’re ready, Colonel.”

“Ready.”

“Very good. Captain?”

Boomer checked the status readouts being transmitted via an encoded datalink from the station. “Transfer module showing pressurized to nine point nine psid,” he reported.

“Good. Clear to match cabin pressure.”

“Roger. Bringing the passenger module pressure down to nine point nine.” Boomer hit a control. “Passing fourteen psid…twelve…ten…nine point nine pressure differential in both station transfer module and Stud passenger module.”

“Very good. Okay, Senator, Lieutenant, you’re cleared to unstrap, enter the tunnel, and open the hatch. Be sure to check the visual indicators first. Good luck.”

“We’re on our way,” Ann said. “And you still owe me a shot for every time you called me ‘Senator,’ Kai.” She and Nano carefully removed their seat restraints and floated free. Ann moved to the tunnel first and pulled herself up inside. At the top of the tunnel she opened a small shutter over an observation window, which lined up exactly with a similar window on the station’s transfer module. She flicked a switch, and a tiny LED light illuminated a pressure gauge inside the transfer module. “Transfer module shows nine point five on the gauge,” she said. “Close enough for government work. Here we go.” Ann twisted two recessed levers in the tunnel’s hatch, and the hatch unlatched. She floated back and swung the hatch in, then locked it in place. She then reached up to the hatch visible just a few inches away, double-checked the pressure differential gauge again, then twisted two handles and swung the hatch open. “Hatches are open. I’m going inside. See you when I see you.”

“We did it,” Boomer breathed.

“We’ve still got a long way to go, Captain,” Raydon said. “But we’ve cleared one incredible hurdle.”

Nano began by unstrapping several equipment cases and boxes inside the passenger module, floated them through the tunnel to Ann, then followed them inside. In a few minutes she was inside the station’s transfer module, and she secured the hatches behind her. “The hatches are closed and latched,” she reported from the transfer module. “Tunnel and module are pressurized and secure. This is so cool. Can’t believe all the room in this thing!”

“The transfer module is the smallest on Silver Tower,” Ann said. “Wait till you see the rest of the place. You might want to move up here permanently.”

“Awesome!”

Inside the station, Ann floated into an adjacent tunnel, turning on lights as she went, then entered the adjacent crew sleeping quarters. She had stayed on the station a few times in the past several years, and she was pleased to see many of her “womanly” touches still in place — some artificial silk flowers, a few pictures, and even a magnetic chess board floating in the middle of the module.

“Wow, this is huge!” Nano remarked. “You can sleep a dozen people in this thing with room to spare! And there’s a shower, closets, TVs, and desks — how cool! I thought it’d be all cramped like the Shuttle orbiter.”

“I told you you’d like it,” Ann said. She floated “down” to another connecting tunnel and checked the pressure gauges. “The cargo module is depressurized and checked, guys. Come on over.”

“Ready, Captain?” Raydon asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Boomer said.

“I’ll go over first,” Raydon said. “Follow me and do what I do. There’s nothing to it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Your readouts look okay?”

“Four green, no red, reading nine point eight psid.”

“Me too. Check your tether.”

Boomer opened a hatch on his side of his seat and pulled out a length of shielded nylon cable. “It’s ready.”

“Mine too. Here we go.” Raydon hit a control, and the forward cockpit cabin began to depressurize. “Fourteen psid…twelve…ten…” But this time it didn’t stop at ten psid, but went all the way to zero. “Forward cabin depressurized. Canopy coming open.” As Boomer watched in amazement, the forward canopy motored open, and moments later Raydon floated free of his seat and was outside the spaceplane. My God, Boomer thought, he’s walking in space! “How you doing back there, Captain? You look like you seen a ghost.”

“I…I’m okay.”

“This is my fifth space walk, and I’m still nervous and excited every time I go out,” Raydon admitted. “But we don’t have all day. Let’s go.” Without appearing to push or even touch anything, Raydon gently moved away from the spaceplane so he was floating in space several yards away. As Boomer watched, the remote manipulator arm began to move toward him. Raydon reached up, and Ann steered the grapple at the end of the arm precisely into his grasp and towed him toward the cargo module on the station. Moments later he was inside the module, and he motioned for Boomer to follow him.

His stomach was knotted with flocks of butterflies, but he was holding up the show, and the remote manipulator arm was waiting for him. He touched the controls and slowly depressurized the rear cockpit cabin…done. With a finger that he noticed was shaking slightly, he hit the canopy switch…and it motored up. Holy Jesus…he was in space! Not just flying through space, but in space!

“Let’s move out, Captain.”

Boomer undid his seat straps, being careful to keep the metal buckles under control as they snaked around him, then pushed himself out of his seat…too hard, and his helmet banged up against the inside of the canopy overhead.

“Easy does it, Captain,” Raydon said. “Use just enough force to overcome inertia and that’s it, and remember you have to counteract inertia on the other side — nothing stops by itself up here. Remember that. Otherwise you’ll be making like a pinball all day. Don’t even think about moving and you’ll find you can move just fine. Keep an eye on your tethers and those locking teeth on the edge of the canopy — rip your suit and your blood will boil away in seconds.”

Slowly, carefully, Boomer eased himself away from the canopy and floated across the sill. Unconsciously he swung his legs out of the cockpit and almost succeeded in spinning himself around like a top. But before he knew it, he was outside the spaceplane, floating between it and the space station. God, he was space walking! He remembered watching videos of the Gemini astronauts doing their spacewalks, stepping outside their tiny capsules to float around at the end of an umbilical cord while millions on Earth watched on TV, and now he was doing it! He looked around and got a hint of vertigo as he saw Earth over two hundred miles below him, and he realized only then that he wasn’t floating — he was falling around the Earth at over seventeen thousand miles an hour! It was an absolutely incredible feeling.

“Sightseeing time is over, Captain,” Raydon prompted him. “Let’s get going. Ann, bring the arm down.”

But Boomer had other ideas. Without waiting for the remote manipulator arm, Boomer gently pushed against the Black Stallion and propelled himself across the distance between the spaceplane and the open cargo module. Somehow he measured that push just right, because he gently floated through space and glided like a falling leaf directly inside the open module’s hatch. Raydon barely had to stop him before the magnets on Boomer’s boots engaged and he stood proudly and excitedly on the cargo module’s deck.

“Well, well, look at the newbie,” Raydon said. “Thinks he’s Buzz Aldrin all of a sudden. Very impressive, rookie.”

“Like he’s been space-walking all his life,” Ann said.

“Enough showing off for the ladies, Captain,” Raydon said with a smile. “Let’s get this cargo module ready to dock the Ares cargo stage and to refuel the Black Stallion, and we can get you on your way. After that, we’ve got a space station to run!”

She was almost home. She could feel her strength increasing with every step she took in the direction of her real homeland.

Azar Assiyeh Qagev waited patiently in her seat in the Turkmenistan Airlines Boeing 737 for the other passengers to deplane. Major Najar sat across the aisle from her watching the departing passengers; Lieutenant Saidi sat beside Azar, appearing to flip through her carry-on bag but was actually scanning the passengers and crew as well for any sign of trouble. Although certainly not required on this airline, but to avoid any complications or undue attention, both Azar and Saidi wore thick medium-colored scarves and plain brown dresses that covered every part of their bodies except for face and hands.

Although Turkmenistan was predominantly Sunni Muslim, and in recent years under new president Jalaluddin Turabi, the former Afghan Taliban fighter who helped defend Turkmenistan from a Russian invasion, Islam was undergoing a resurgence in an attempt by the government to quiet religious unrest, religious expression was still generally not encouraged and anyone flaunting their religious beliefs or customs was viewed with suspicion or sometimes outward aggression. It was a tactical decision to dress conservatively on this flight from Istanbul, Turkey, to the capital of Turkmenistan. According to strict Muslim practices it was not allowed for a man to stare at a woman in public who was not his wife, and Azar and her bodyguards hoped that practice would be followed even in this former Stalinist country.

It had been a long, harrowing trip so far since hijacking the jet chartered by the U.S. State Department. American and Canadian radars along the border had improved markedly since the American Holocaust, and after commandeering the plane and crossing into Canada they were approached immediately by Royal Canadian Air Force patrol jets. Fortunately the jets didn’t attack, but instead shadowed them as they flew northward. Major Najar’s plan was to land, force the airport to give them fuel, then try to make it to an isolated American airport, refuel again, and try to make it to the Caribbean or Bahamas. But stuck almost directly in the middle of North America, their chance of fighting their way out safely was quickly diminishing.

Finally Azar herself got on the jet’s telephone and contacted the Canadian foreign ministry office in Winnipeg, proclaimed they were political refugees, and promised to land the jet there. Upon landing they were immediately placed under arrest. Fortunately the American Department of State only wanted the jet and crew back and didn’t want to press charges, so Canadian officials promised they would not prosecute if they left the country immediately.

The three carried two sets of passports, American and Turkish. The Canadian officials confiscated the American passports on behalf of the United States — another condition of release — but allowed the group to use their Turkish passports to exit the country. They purchased Lufthansa airline tickets from Winnipeg to Istanbul. While in Istanbul they received a required letter of introduction from a former Turkmeni consular officer — price, one thousand dollars U.S. for the three of them — then purchased tickets on Turkmenistan Airlines to Ashkhabad.

Thirty grueling hours later after departing Minnesota, they were finally just a few miles from Iran. All they had to do was get safely past Turkmeni customs and immigration, and the Qagev security network would take them across the border. Unfortunately they did not have visas to enter Turkmenistan, and the Turkmeni government disliked foreigners who didn’t bother getting visas before trying to enter the country.

Najar tried to steer them toward a customs officer who looked like he might be Muslim, but soon they couldn’t hesitate any longer, and they queued up before an agent who unfortunately looked anything but Muslim. “Your papers, please,” the customs officer ordered in Turkmen, holding out his hand without looking up. Najar handed over their passports and letter of introduction. Azar and Saidi had pulled their scarves low, obscuring their faces, and kept their heads bowed.

The customs officer looked at the passports carefully, eyeing Najar suspiciously. “You have no visa to enter Turkmenistan,” he said. When Najar’s narrowed eyes told him he didn’t understand, the officer switched to Arabic and repeated his statement.

“I was assured I could get a short-term visa here, at the airport,” Najar said.

“Only under very unusual circumstances — very unusual circumstances,” the customs officer said. “Is this an urgent trip or some sort of family emergency?”

“No. Just business.”

“I see.” He scowled, looked past Najar at the two females, then flipped open their passport photo pages and motioned. “Take off the scarves.”

“It is not permitted,” Najar said sternly.

“In your society it is not permitted — here, on my order, it is,” the customs officer said perturbedly. Najar hesitated again. The customs officer closed the passports and shuffled some papers as if getting ready to write a report. “Very well, sir. With all deference to your religious preferences and your women’s frail and unassailable femininity, we will send your wife and young daughter to a segregated area where a female officer will continue inprocessing. It should take no longer than…oh, I’d say a few hours, perhaps tomorrow morning, depending on availability of suitable personnel. All of you will have to sleep here in the airport security office’s holding cell — along with all the drunks, pickpockets, and other reprobates we catch preying on honest visitors and residents of Turkmenistan. Now tell me, sir, which would you prefer to do?”

Najar sized up the officer, considering whether he should challenge this affrontery, then deciding to relent. He turned and told the females to take off their scarves, and they did.

“I am relieved to see that God has not turned anyone to slabs of salt before my eyes,” the customs officer said dryly. He studied the photos carefully, taking his time, then shaking his head to indicate to the females that they could cover themselves again. “So. You are from Turkey but come from Winnipeg, Canada. What do you do, Mr. Najar?”

“Telecommunications software engineer.”

“What is your business in Turkmenistan?”

“I am to enter discussions to upgrade your country’s wireless phone system and provide service to every part of your country.”

“I see. Very impressive, very impressive.” He peered at the letter of introduction. “I assume you deal with the government ministry of energy and industry for this project?”

“No, I would deal with His Honor Matkarim Ashirov, minister of communications,” Najar corrected him, thankful he had taken the time to carefully study his own cover’s background. “But we are in negotiations with RuTel for some of their infrastructure and land leases — that is the purpose of my visit. Hopefully we will be meeting with His Honor Ashirov soon afterward.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. But he impaled Najar with an icy stare, held up the letter of introduction with disdain, then said, “But what confuses me, sir, is why you would need to go through this particular person in Istanbul for a letter of introduction when you could have just as easily obtained a visa from the ministry of communications or a letter of introduction from RuTel — if you are indeed working with these agencies? This person in Istanbul is well-known to us as a letter-writing hack — he would give Satan himself a letter of introduction for a thousand dollars. Can you please explain this to me, sir?”

“Of course,” Najar said. “If I would have requested a letter from Mr. Saparov at RuTel, I would be beholden to him, and that is no way to begin any business negotiations. And I have not spoken to the minister about my deal because it has not been formalized to my shareholders’ satisfaction. We wish to go to His Honor Ashirov at the very least as equal partners with RuTel in this venture, preferably as majority partners. So the ministry was not obligated to grant us a visa since we have not been dealing with them at all yet.”

“I see,” the customs officer said. “I do not understand all this business psychology and maneuverings, but what you say makes a certain amount of sense to me.” He stamped something on the letter of introduction. “So you will be meeting with this Mr. Saparov at RuTel soon?”

“After I complete my due diligence and business proposal, I will,” Najar said. “But I wish to be fully prepared before I ask for a meeting. That may take a few days. That is why I requested only a ten-day business visa, with no re-entry privileges.” He withdrew and opened his wallet, letting the customs officer peek inside the billfold, revealing it fat with American dollars and Turkish new lira. “I am prepared to pay the expedited visa fee, in cash — it is four times the normal fee, is it not?” Najar knew the expedited fee was only twice the normal fee — he hoped the extra “incentive” would cause this guy to back off. He undoubtedly had most of this guy’s entire annual wages in his wallet right now.

“I see,” the customs officer intoned. He looked through the passports again, imperceptibly nodding his head. “Just so.” He got up from his chair and ordered, “Follow me.” Najar’s heart sank.

They were taken into a very small office just behind the service counter. Najar and Saidi could see no surveillance cameras — that was good. There was a long steel table in the center of the room, along with a telephone on a rickety wooden desk and inspection devices such as flashlights and rubber gloves. “Well,” the agent said after he locked the door behind them, “I think we shall have to meet with my supervisor for some additional information. We shall undoubtedly have to speak with Mr. Saparov and someone at the ministry’s office to confirm your story.”

“It is no story, sir — it is the truth,” Najar said, trying to remain calm. “But I will be happy to meet with the unit supervisor here, and I should like to inform the trade and commerce consul at the Turkish embassy of this exchange as well. I think he should be apprised at how unfairly one of its citizens is treated by Turkmenistan customs.”

The customs officer’s eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, sir? I assure you, that is most unwise.”

“Please, sir,” Azar said in crude but passable Turkmen, removing her scarf and affixing the customs officer with an imploring, desperate look, “please let my father, mother, and I come into your country.”

“Azar, no…!”

“Look, the China doll speaks!” the customs officer laughed.

Najar’s mouth tightened and his fists balled, but Azar touched his hand under the counter, ordering him to be calm. “Please, sir. My father has…he has sold everything to come here and make this deal — our home, our farm, his inheritance, everything,” Azar said. “My father is very smart and has many ways to help the people of your country, but no one at the Russian phone company or in your government minister’s office will talk to him while he is in Turkey, so we came here together. My father brought us all here to Turkmenistan as a sign of his commitment to this project — this will be our home for many years if this deal is concluded. We have no place else to go and no money other than what my father carries with him. This is our last hope. Will you please help us, sir?”

The customs officer scowled at Najar. “So, you let your female child do the pleading for you, eh, Mister Telecommunications Engineer?” he scoffed. “That is a true Turkish businessman for you. And why does she learn Turkmeni when her father does not?” Najar forced himself to lower his eyes contritely. The customs officer chuckled. “Have you declared that foreign currency yet, sir?” Najar shook his head and handed him all the money out of his wallet — he noticed how quickly the customs officer hid it from sight with his hands and with the letter of introduction. “Any more to declare?” Najar turned, and Saidi withdrew another wad of bills from a pocket inside her robes.

“Ah, just so. As I thought. Not so delicate and feminine as to stop her from hiding foreign currency from a customs agent, eh?” The customs officer counted it all, separated all of the American dollars from the rest, slipped the greenbacks into his pants pocket, counted out a thousand dollars’ worth of Turkish new lira for the visa fees, logged the remainder, handed it over to Najar, and stamped the passports. “Five days tourist visa, no re-entry,” he said. “You must apply for a business visa before you contact the ministry of communications or anyone at RuTel — if you fail to do so, you could spend six months in jail for the violation, unless of course you have your lovely daughter talk them out of arresting you. You must check in at a hotel in the capital and surrender your passport to the manager within four hours or be in violation of the terms of your tourist visa.”

He handed back the passports, then looked at Azar, smiled evilly at Najar, pursed his lips as if giving her a kiss, and added, “What pretty eyes she has. I’ll bet she drives all the boys wild.” He grinned at Najar’s suppressed anger, laughed, then shook his head toward the exit. “Welcome to Turkmenistan.” Najar again forced himself to control his anger as he took his passports, bowed politely at the laughing customs officer, and turned to go.

They collected their bags at the inspection station. No one said a word outside. They tried to flag down a taxi, but a private citizen stopped first and offered them a ride. After a few moments of haggling, they settled on a price and piled into the broken-down, dilapidated Russian sedan.

The driver took them to the Tolkuchka Bazaar at the outskirts of Ashkhabad, which looked like the gaudiest Hollywood B-movie set of a bazaar they had ever seen — thousands of shoppers circulating around hundreds of merchants, some in multicolored tents but most just sitting on colorful carpets with their wares spread out before them. The sights and sounds were rich and varied, and Azar found her eyes wandering to the beautiful silks, silver, jewelry, and rugs on display.

But they had a job to do. Job one: make sure they were not being followed. They dared not look behind them in the car or speak except in conversational Turkish, fearing the driver to be a Turkmenistan National Committee for Security agent, so they didn’t know if they were being tailed and so assumed they were. They did several switchbacks, quick dodges, and reversals to try to spot any shadows, but didn’t spot any tails. Still not satisfied they were safe, they bought some lamb kebabs and tea and sat outside a camel corral with other visitors taking a break from the crush of people in the bazaar, safe from everyone except an occasional herder or vendor peddling something.

“Thank you for helping me at the airport, Shahdokht,” Najar said in a low voice.

“I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, but we did not want to be confronted by a superior officer — the more eyes around, the lesser chances we’d have of bribing our way into the country,” Azar said. “Thankfully you showed him your money — he was just looking for the right opportunity to be able to take it from you. What is our situation, Major?”

“We have just two hours before we’ll be reported for not surrendering our passports,” Najar said. “Hopefully that customs officer won’t be so efficient…”

“We have to assume he’ll be more efficient,” Azar said.

“Agreed, Shahdokht. Our network contact is supposed to meet us here at the bazaar, but I don’t know what he or she looks like or who it is, so they’ll have to make contact with us.”

“We’ll wait here and finish our wonderful meal, then lose ourselves in the crowd again until nightfall,” Azar said. She was serious about the food — she was afraid that the spicy, chewy meat would be too much for her stomach, but she enjoyed every bite. She looked toward the south. “Those must be the Kopetdag Mountains. I’ve read about them and seen pictures. They are beautiful.”

“That’s Mount Shahshah there,” Saidi said, pointing a bit to the west. “The Turkmenis claim it’s on their side of the border — based on Soviet surveyors’ claims, naturally — but it’s really in Iran. But wait until you see the Alborz Mountains north of Tehran and the volcano Mount Damavand. It’s almost twice as high as Shahshah, and it’s the largest volcano in Eurasia west of the Hindu Kush.”

“I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant,” Azar said. “I can’t wait to see the Caspian Sea — I only caught a glimpse of it from the air — and the Persian Gulf, and even the Great Salt Desert. Minnesota is nothing like my Iran.”

Another vendor wearing colorful robes and sashes, a red turban, and white skull cap wandered over, carrying a cart full of bags of hot pistachios, and Azar’s mouth watered again. The vendor saw this immediately and smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile. “Peace and happiness to you, my child,” he said in Turkmeni, bowing to Najar as a way of asking permission to address the girl. “Would you like some warm, satisfying pistachios? Just six thousand manat, freshly picked this morning and roasted right here just minutes ago, the best bargain in the whole bazaar!”

“Thank you, sir, and peace to you and your family as well,” Azar said in her best Turkmeni. She looked at Najar, and he nodded, keeping a careful eye on the vendor’s hands and the men behind him. A few other hawkers had started to cluster around nearby, waiting to see how much money these pilgrims would pull out. “All I have is Turkish new lira, sir.”

“Turkish lira! Even better, my child! But because that is not official currency here in Turkmenistan, I must ask for eight thousand manat, still a very great bargain for you, a pittance really if you consider the exchange rate between our currencies. I will be sure to give you more than enough of my succulent pistachios for all three of you.”

“That is generous of you, sir, but my father says I have spent enough and can only give you one thousand manat — fifty kurus.”

“Your father is wise and must be respected, child, but I have children of my own to feed,” the vendor said. “But in respect for your father and mother, I will sell an extra large bag to you for the original price — six thousand.”

“I’m afraid my blessed father will disapprove of any more than two thousand manat.”

The vendor bowed his head to Najar, who only scowled back. “I would not like to be the cause of any ill feelings whatsoever between such a powerful-looking gentleman and such a sweet child,” the pistachio seller said, “but I have a father, mother, six brothers, a wife, and four children to answer to as well — and a girlfriend or two, of course, but don’t tell my wife, please!” His chuckle subsided when he saw Najar’s scowl deepen. “I will tell you what, my child, in reward for being so good with me and for speaking our native tongue so well.” He brushed his hands together as if anticipating closing this deal immediately. “Four thousand manat for you, and not a tennesi more. The rest I shall receive when I see the pleasure in your faces as you enjoy my pistachios.”

“You are generous and patient, sir.” She counted out coins in her hand. “I have seventy kurus here, and I dare not ask my father for more — I have been too much of a burden to him already on this trip. You will become the most generous man we have met in Turkmenistan if you accept.”

The vendor smiled, bit his index finger, then bowed. “Done, child, and may God smile on you.” Azar gave the coins to Najar, who gave them to the vendor. He indeed did portion out a very large bag of steaming pistachios and handed them over to Najar, who gave them to Azar without taking his eyes off the vendor. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, and may God continue to smile on you. Is there any other way I can serve you, child?”

“Like how?” Najar growled in Farsi.

“Like taking the Shahdokht and her royal bodyguards to her home,” the man replied in Farsi. He bowed slightly, taking a peek over his shoulder at the slowly growing number of vendors starting to move closer. “I’m sorry, Shahdokht, but it’s not every day you get to haggle over the price of a bag of pistachios with a member of the Persian royal family. Now, allow me to take you into the waiting arms of your loyal followers in your homeland. God be praised, our salvation is at hand! The blessed and powerful Qagev have returned!”

“You wasted a lot of time,” Saidi said.

“I decided that simply approaching you without at least trying to make a sale would look bad,” he said. “I’ve been here at the bazaar for three years, waiting for this blessed day for the true rulers of Persia’s return, God be praised. I know the bazaar well.”

“The transaction attracted too much attention,” Najar said perturbedly. “Where can we meet?”

“My truck is parked at the far northwest vendor lot, beside the bicycles,” the man replied. “I suggest…”

But suddenly there was a commotion behind him, and moments later two Soviet-era light infantry vehicles and a sedan burst toward the corral. Three Turkmeni soldiers jumped out of the vehicle, and a man in a plain dark business suit emerged from the sedan. Najar and Saidi were on their feet faster than Azar had ever seen them move before.

“No one move!” the sergeant in charge of the military forces shouted in Russian. “Hands where I can see them!” The other soldiers carried rusty-looking AK-47s and sidearms in worn, rotting leather holsters. Azar had no doubt that Najar and Saidi could take them out within seconds…if they had weapons or were within reach of them. Najar, Saidi, Azar, and the vendor open their hands to their sides in plain sight.

The man in the suit approached them, smiling — and then, to everyone’s surprise, bowed. “Salam aleikom, Miss Qagev,” he said in Farsi. “Welcome to Turkmenistan. I am Colonel Jamal Fattah, deputy chief of mission and chief political officer of the Iranian embassy in Ashkhabad.” He looked at Najar and Saidi. “You must be Miss Qagev’s bodyguards…Richard and Linda VanWie, or is it Major Najar and Lieutenant Saidi now?”

“Salam aleikom, sir,” Azar replied, bowing slightly in return. Fattah was obviously pleased at that response, though he kept his eye carefully on Najar and Saidi. “What brings the Iranian deputy consul here?”

“Why, a member of the Qagev royal family, here, in Turkmenistan — it’s practically a cause for yet another national week of celebration, just like the Turkmenis award themselves just about every other week of the year for some reason or another,” Fattah said.

“How did you know we were here?”

“I would be revealing important state secrets if I…”

“The Russian embassy intercepted communications between Canada and the United States about the arrest and deportment of three persons who were under protective custody of the U.S. State Department, Shahdokht,” Saidi said. “They obviously passed the information to their friends the Iranians.”

Fattah nodded and smiled. “Lieutenant Saidi is as smart as she is beautiful,” he said. “Rumor had it that you actually stole the plane sent to evacuate you to a safe place? Extraordinary. Anyway, the report said the trio was in quite a rush and headed to Istanbul via Frankfurt. A message was put out to all embassies to watch for you. After you left Istanbul, a very resourceful researcher at the Federal Security Service in Moscow guessed who you might be, based on recent events in Iran, and the word was put out to be on the lookout for you and your parents…”

“What of my parents?” Azar interjected.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Miss Qagev,” the Iranian said. “Once the word was out it was not difficult tracking down two adults and a female teenager traveling together through eastern and central Asia. We made positive identification shortly thereafter, pulled up your files, and then put all known pro-monarchy individuals and Iranian expatriates in Turkmenistan under surveillance, knowing you’d make contact with your underground network.”

“We do not have any quarrel with the Turkmeni government,” Azar said, “and we have broken no laws here…”

“I am sure you entered the country using false papers…”

“We were legally admitted into this country and we have valid visas…”

“That will be thoroughly investigated,” Fattah said. “While that investigation is underway, Iran will file extradition papers with the Turkmeni courts, and I have no doubt you will be turned over to us in a very short time.”

“On what charges?”

“Sedition, conspiracy, terrorism, murder — the list is very long and horrible,” Fattah said. “I am sure the Turkmeni government will be anxious to cooperate. These soldiers will take you into custody and take you to the Niyazov jail in Ashkhabad, where you’ll stay awaiting extradition to Iran. The wheels of justice move slowly in Turkmenistan, but you will eventually return home…as the guest of the ayatollah.” He lowered his voice, turning his back to the Turkmeni soldiers, and went on: “Now, you don’t want to die in a hail of gunfire outside a filthy camel corral in Ashkhabad at the hands of those mostly bored-looking, under-trained, and underpaid soldiers over there, so I’m asking you to come along quietly. I know your bodyguards are well trained and could probably twist those soldiers’ heads right off their shoulders, and mine as well, but I’d hate for anyone to die out here like common criminals, especially a royal princess. If you resist, I can’t be responsible for what happens next.” He motioned to his sedan. “Shall we, Miss Qagev?”

Najar stepped forward, the menace clear in his eyes and body — so palpable was it that the Turkmeni soldiers sensed it immediately and stiffened. Azar scanned the growing crowd around them, but she didn’t see any sympathetic faces. They might scatter and confuse the crowd if her bodyguards could get their hands on those rifles, and they could probably lose themselves in the bazaar easily…

…but then Azar noticed other men in the crowd…and they didn’t look like Turkmeni vendors or shoppers. They looked military but wore civilian clothes, they were less Central Asian — looking, their gazes were sure and steady, and their hands were free, hovering near open coats. They were Iranians, Azar thought, surely Pasdaran — she was positive of it. She turned to Saidi and motioned toward the men she spotted, and Saidi saw him right away too.

“Major, no,” she said softly. “Pasdaran.”

Najar’s eyes darted around the crowd and soon spotted the very same subjects. He looked accusingly at Fattah, then let his body relax and opened his palms. “I wonder what the Turkmeni government would think about Iran bringing in Revolutionary Guard assassins into their country,” Najar said.

“They probably wouldn’t like it very much,” Fattah admitted, “but by the time they found out about him they’d be long gone, and you’d still be dead. Now come along quietly, please.”