Strike Force

CHAPTER 6

“Here’s the latest update, ladies and gentlemen,” Brigadier-General David Luger said in the Dreamland battle staff room. He was standing before Patrick McLanahan; Brigadier-General Rebecca Furness, commander of the Air Battle Force based at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, and Brigadier-General Hal Briggs, commander of the Air Battle Force’s ground forces; and Captain Hunter Noble and First Lieutenant Dorothea Benneton, representing the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane crews.

“Armstrong Space Station will take another day and a half to get settled into its new orbit to start detailed reconnaissance and surveillance of Iran,” Luger went on. “We’re getting a few oblique images but nothing tactically useful yet. We’ve increased NIRTSat overflights and we’ve narrowed the search for Iran’s mobile medium- and long-range missiles to a dozen different sites.”

“One dozen? Doesn’t sound too narrow to me, Dave,” Hal commented.

“Once the station gets in place, it’ll be able to discriminate between real missiles and decoys and even look inside bunkers and storage buildings,” Dave said. “We’ve got the best eyes out there on it now.”

“Anything on Buzhazi’s whereabouts?” Patrick asked.

“Negative,” Dave replied. “He’s hiding deep. No recent attacks except for very low-level insurgent activities. He might be gearing up for some big operation — the attacks lately have been small raids, collecting nothing more than uniforms and small-arms ammunition, but this could be a prelude to something much bigger.”

“The White House won’t even consider our plan to attack the Iranian missile sites until we’ve narrowed the field down,” Patrick said, “so we’re on hold until then.” He turned to the Air Battle Force commander. “Rebecca, status of your forces?”

“Same — three EB-52 Megafortresses, all manned; four EB-1C Vampires, two unmanned; and one AL-52 Dragon anti-missile aircraft,” Furness replied. One of the first female combat pilots in the U.S. Air Force, Furness was also the first woman in charge of a tactical bombing wing. Her Air Force Reserve B-1B Lancer bomber wing was selected by Patrick McLanahan to be converted to strategic flying battleships, capable of carrying an extensive array of weaponry. Most of her aircraft had been destroyed by the Russians at Yakutsk — her little force of bombers represented virtually all of America’s air-breathing long-range strike aircraft. “I think we have access to one or two B-2A bombers and six KC-10 tankers as well.”

Rebecca’s EB-1C Vampire bombers, EB-52 Megafortress battleships, and AL-52 Dragon anti-missile aircraft were the most sophisticated attack planes in the world. The EB-1C Vampire was a modified version of the Air Force’s B-1B Lancer, with the addition of stealth technology, advanced computers, avionics, aircraft systems, and flight controls. But the real power of the Vampire bomber was its weapons. Every air-launched weapon in the American military arsenal could be utilized on the Vampire, and most weapons others in the American military had never heard of.

The EB-52 Megafortress was a highly modified version of the venerable B-52 Stratofortress bomber, so much so that it could hardly be called a B-52 any more at all. Instead of five or six crewmembers, it had just two pilots — all other functions and crew positions were automated. The skin and structure of the original B-52 had been changed, using composite fibersteel, radar-absorbing materials, and unconventional mission-adaptive flight controls, to turn it into a real stealth bomber. The avionics and systems on board had all been changed to make the aircraft more precise, more connected, lighter, faster, and more efficient. Only a handful of EB-52s and its other even more highly modified brothers and sisters still existed after the American Holocaust, but the remaining few planes were the cutting-edge of long-range air attack.

“Updates on Iran’s defenses?”

“The Revolutionary Guards and Iranian air defense forces are on full alert,” Rebecca replied, “and we’re seeing every kind of Russian, French, Chinese, and even some American air defense weapons from the seventies to the present operating out there. Tehran, the Turkish border, and the Persian Gulf, Gulf of Oman, and Arabian Sea coastlines are the heaviest defended, with multiple layers of very sophisticated surface-to-air missiles sites — many of them mobile and harder to pinpoint. They’ve obviously learned some lessons from their last encounter with you guys. Very few fighter patrols. We’re looking at possible missile launch sites but so far all of them have similar numbers of defensive batteries installed around them. So far we can’t tell which are decoys, so it’s hard to tell which are real.

“We’ve had to modify our original plan to reflect the denser and more sophisticated order of battle,” she went on. “We’ll need to use a lot of resources to punch through both their outer as well as terminal defenses. Once our bombers get through the outer defenses they can roam over the countryside fairly freely until they get within fifty miles of the target area, and then they run the gauntlet again. Each plane may have just a couple big precision-guided munitions left to attack by the time they make it through.” She looked at Hal. “Our attacks need to be finely coordinated both for ingress and egress, and even if everything works perfectly our guys will be in for a very rough ride at best.”

“But it’s still doable?”

Rebecca hesitated just long enough for many of their throats to go dry, then replied, “Yes, we can do it. We’ll need as much intel as we can scrape together, better than average aircraft and weapon reliability, perfect timing, perfect aiming, and a lot of luck…but yes, sir, we can do it.”

“Thanks, Rebecca.” Patrick knew that Rebecca Furness’s assessment was as brutally honest as possible — she wouldn’t hesitate to tell them if she didn’t think her bombers could make it. “Boomer?”

“We’ve got two Black Stallion spaceplanes ready to go,” Hunter Noble replied. “Both can be configured for attack, satellite launch, or passengers. The third spaceplane hasn’t gone into orbit or carried any cargo but we can use it if necessary — we’ll be testing as we go. Nano?”

“I wanted to bring up the new gear General Briggs mentioned we might be bringing along, Nano” Benneton said, smiling enticingly at Hal just as she had been since returning from Las Vegas. “I took a look at some of that new gear we acquired. The problem is not with weight, but volume. The unit itself folds up fairly small, but we need to remove two crew seats to accommodate it. That means we can carry one unit, two or three mission backpacks, two spare power cells, and three passengers in the module. It’s impressive technology, but my question for you is: is it worth losing two Tin Man commandos?”

“Can we fit two units in the passenger module, Lieutenant?” Dave Luger asked.

“Yes, sir, but with spare power cells only, not with any of those mission backpacks,” Nano replied. “Again, it’s volume, not weight. Obviously those units can carry a big load, and they were designed to be carried into battle aboard large cargo-sized aircraft or those cool Humvees we got, so there was never any attempt to miniaturize the mission backpacks. Once they’re redesigned, they’ll be much more useful.”

“We’ll adjust the mix depending on the mission and the tactical situation,” Patrick said, “but for now I want to be able to bring one unit with as many mission backpacks as possible together with two Tin Men.”

“Yes, sir. We can do that.”

“Good,” Patrick said. “All right, folks: the plan still stands, and we’re just awaiting approval and a warning order. The primary objective is to locate, track, and destroy Iran’s tactical and strategic missiles, so whoever’s in charge out there won’t destroy half a city again like they did with Arān. It’ll take Ann and Raydon another day or so to reposition Silver Tower so we can do a detailed ISAR search on the spots we’ve identified so far with the NIRTSats. With thirty-six suspected storage, garrison, and launch sites, we’re going to need every person and every weapon system pulling together to make it work.”

“I’m hoping at least half of those are decoys that Silver Tower can identify — otherwise we’re going to need a lot more boots on the ground,” Dave said.

“We need to start getting the boots over there now,” Patrick said. “As soon as we locate those missile sites we need to take them down.” He looked up and spoke, “Duty Officer, conference Colonel Raydon in for me.” The computerized “Duty Officer” made the connection just moments later. “How’s it going up there, Colonel?” Patrick McLanahan asked on the secure video communications datalink from his command center at Dreamland. “Ready to come home yet?”

“Not on your life, sir,” Kai Raydon responded. “I feel like a kid again. I might just retire up here. Glad you called. I have something for you. Got a minute?”

“Sure, Kai,” Patrick replied. “What do you have?”

“As you know, sir, we’re repositioning the station to cover Iran better,” Raydon said. “It’ll take another day or two to complete the orbit change. But as we’re moving I decided to poke around eastern Iran and its neighbors with the sensors and electromagnetic sniffers Ann’s got up here to see if anyone else is getting as worried as the Iranians over this insurgency. I’ve been picking up an awful lot of uncoded chatter between Turkmeni border patrols and Iranian Revolutionary Guard units right around Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan. It doesn’t appear to be routine — something’s going down.”

Patrick’s stomach tightened at the double mention of both the Iranians and Turkmenistan — his experiences with both had mostly been very unpleasant. Moreover, he considered the president of Turkmenistan, Jalaluddin Turabi, a friend, and if the Iranians were becoming active again in that country, his life was definitely in jeopardy. “Moving border security units in response to what happened in Qom?”

“Maybe, but there’s something else,” Raydon said. “We ran a lot of the uncoded chatter through our translators, and we keep on picking up the word ‘princess.’ There’s only two of us up here, and Ann is pretty much working on setting up the station and placing us in our new orbit, so we don’t have time to check the intelligence dispatches on anything pertaining to ‘princess.’

“At first I thought it was a glitch in the decoder, and then I thought it was a code-name for a weapon or vehicle, but I think they’re talking about a person. Can you look around and see what you can find?”

“Sure. Did you send me the intercepts you’re referring to?”

“Should be sitting in your in-box already, sir.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I find anything.”

“I’m standing by.” Patrick gave the information he had to his Plans and Intelligence office, who had access to all classified reports submitted to various agencies in the U.S. government, including the State Department and Pentagon.

Less than an hour later, Dave Luger read over the report. “It’s not a code-name as far as we can tell, Muck,” he said. “We can’t detect any attempts to use code-words in any of the transmissions Raydon pulled down — the Iranians and Turkmenis are both chatting away in the clear. We think they’re talking about a real princess they may have captured. What do you suspect up there, Kai? What are you seeing out there in Ashkhabad?”

“Nothing specific,” Raydon replied. “But we can track and triangulate the transmissions, coded and uncoded, and we traced activity to a big bazaar outside Ashkhabad.”

“The Tolkuchka bazaar. I’ve been there,” Patrick said. “One of the biggest in Central Asia.”

“We can’t pick out faces or anything like that, but we did get ultra-wideband synthetic aperture pictures of a confrontation between some Turkmeni military units and the source of some of the uncoded transmissions — namely, a car in which radio transmissions were being sent and received in Farsi.”

“Not unusual. The border area is pretty heavily traveled, and the Iranians have a significant presence there.”

Patrick was indeed very familiar with the country. After the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan, some fleeing Taliban forces crossed the border into Turkmenistan. The insurgent force had grown as it moved westward into a fighting force big enough to threaten the pro-Russian Turkmeni government, and the Russians moved in to crush the rebellion. Patrick McLanahan’s fledgling Air Battle Force was ordered into Turkmenistan to covertly monitor the situation, and a low-scale but fierce shooting conflict erupted between American and Russian air and ground forces to prevent a slaughter in that oil-rich but underdeveloped country.

Patrick had been severely reprimanded for his actions against the Russians, but his Air Battle Force ground teams did succeed in rescuing the ex-Taliban fighter turned Turkmeni armed forces commander Jalaluddin Turabi from the Russians. Turabi returned to his adopted country and later became president of Turkmenistan. Although protected by the United Nations and slowly transforming into an Islamic republic similar to Turkey, most of the educated, elites, petroleum industries, urban areas, and government were heavily Russian or Russian-sympathetic, and Turabi was under constant pressure to return Turkmenistan to the Russian sphere of influence.

“Well, maybe so,” Raydon replied, “but it looks like the military guys and the ones in the Iranian vehicle were confronting a group of three persons sitting near a horse pen or corral.”

“Three persons, you say?” Dave Luger asked.

“You got something on that?”

“The State Department put out a bulletin a few days ago that said that a group of three political refugees under their protection had fled the country by stealing a jet and flying it to Canada, presumably heading toward Iran,” Dave said. “They were accompanied by two guards apparently assigned to assist, but there were three in protective custody. Can you send me some of those images?”

Raydon already had his finger poised on the button. “Done,” he said. “The timing works out correct if they traveled from Canada to Central Asia by air.” There was no response. “Genesis, how do you copy Armstrong?”

“Sorry, Kai, I was reading here,” Patrick said, paging through more of the dispatches presented in his search. “There’s another report uploaded from the Minnesota Civil Air Patrol to the Air Force and copied to Air National Guard headquarters and the U.S. Department of State. Seems that a unit commander reports that one of his cadets was taken by an Air National Guard unit, claiming that he was supporting a State Department mission to recover the cadet who is purported to be a female descendant of Iranian royalty…”

“In other words, a ‘princess,’” Raydon interjected.

“The Air National Guard crew had two persons that the unit commander recognized as the cadet’s parents but apparently were in reality the cadet’s bodyguards, along with two more individuals who were security forces accompanying the bodyguards.”

“No shit!” Raydon exclaimed. “You don’t suppose…?”

“It’s quite a stretch from here on out, Kai,” Patrick said. “The State Department can give us more information.”

“Now that you mention them, it’s way above my pay grade,” Raydon said. “I’ll leave it up to you from here on out, sir. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“One question: can you track the three subjects?”

“Sure — for now,” Raydon replied. “Armstrong is tied into several other surveillance satellites, and we can pull information from them. Now if they transfer them to another car or if they stay off the air I’ll probably lose them, but they’re not practicing any COMSEC or OPSEC at all. I think I can track them no sweat.”

“Great, Kai. Keep me posted.”

“Roger that. Armstrong clear.”

Patrick dismissed everyone from the meeting except Dave Luger, then sat back to think. It wasn’t just a stretch to link the persons apparently being apprehended in Ashkhabad with three political refugees from Minnesota…it was almost science fiction. But what if it was true? He wasn’t going to just sit on the information.

Patrick phoned the Secretary of State’s office. No one was available to speak with him — no surprise there — until he drilled all the way down the hierarchy to the assistant undersecretary of state for Central Asian affairs, Norman Moller. “Mr. Moller, good morning, this is General McLanahan, calling from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada, secure.”

“Norman Moller, assistant undersecretary for Central Asian affairs, secure,” Moller recited for the benefit of the dozens of overt and covert listening and recording systems monitoring all government calls these days.

“How are you today, sir?”

“The Patrick McLanahan? The guy who bombed Russia after the Holocaust?”

“Yes, sir. I have a question I’m hoping you can answer.”

“I’ll try.”

“I received information from my intelligence sources that indicate that three foreign persons under the State Department’s protection, ones who recently left Minnesota, were spotted in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, and may have been picked up by the Iranians. Can you confirm this for me?”

There was a considerable silence on the phone, long enough to confirm in Patrick’s mind that his and Raydon’s guesses were correct. Finally: “I’ll have to call you back to confirm your identity, General,” Moller said. “I’ll be in touch shortly. Good-bye. Moller clear.”

In Washington-speak “shortly” could means five minutes or five days, Patrick knew. He let out a breath…loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “You stirring up more shit, Muck?” he asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“I want to find out who the Iranians and Turkmenis captured at that bazaar in Turkmenistan,” Patrick said.

“That station’s sensors are really incredible, and the technology is twenty years old,” Dave said. “Just wait till we start upgrading the processors. But I digress. Why do you care about this particular contact — you have a thing about princesses? Maybe the troops captured a good-looking female nomad and that’s their pet nickname for her.”

“It’s not just about the princess — it’s about what to do about Iran,” Patrick said. “Buzhazi is going to need a lot more help if he hopes to battle the Pasdaran for control of the Iranian government. Remember all the stuff in the news lately about former Persian monarchs and their families living in the United States?”

“Yeah — I thought it was just fluff pieces,” Dave said. “Some royal family wishing to return in case the fundamentalist government is brought down — not the most recent royal family, but one from before the Shah. I can’t remember his name. The guy has a blog on the Internet. I think he uses it to send secret instructions to his loyalists in Iran or something.” He logged into his computer at his console beside Patrick and punched in instructions.

“Well, Ashkhabad is very close to the Iranian border,” Patrick said. “If someone was going to sneak across, that would be a good place to do it.”

“Says here that all the children of the heir presumptive of the Qagev dynasty, the last true monarchy in power in Iran before the revolution, were killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards after Khomeini took power,” Dave said. “So the ‘princess’ thing might be going nowhere.” He surfed a few more sites. “There are kids still around from the Pahlavi dynasty living in America.”

“In Minnesota?”

“Doesn’t say. The previous dynasty’s heir lives near Dallas. Want me to call the State Department and ask?”

“Already did — they hung up on me. I left a message for Carson and CCed Sparks — they can’t ignore me forever.”

“Sounds like you’re right on the mark, or really really warm, and that’s taking the rest of the White House and State Department by surprise,” Dave said.

“What if there were not just a few old monarchs still alive, but they had a following, maybe even an army?” Patrick said. “What if they were all waiting for a time just like now to rise up and try to overthrow the Islamist government?”

“A sleeper army, underground since before the fall of the Shah, big and strong enough to take on the Iranian Revolutionary Guards?” Dave asked. “So what if there is?”

“Then if the princess is part of this sleeper army, maybe even the leader, she needs to be rescued so she can lead her army against the Pasdaran.”

Dave laughed. “Sounds like your space flight has restricted blood flow to your brain, sir,” he said. “So you’re thinking of sending in a Battle Force squad to snatch this princess — if she really is a princess and not just an endearing term used by the soldiers for a hooker they found in the bazaar — and set her on the path of revolution?”

“We’re planning on sending in the Battle Force to hunt for Iranian missiles — this would be a good reason to go in and probe Iran’s northeastern frontier,” Patrick said. “If there is an Iranian princess, and she has followers, they can help our guys get into the country.”

“I don’t think we need help getting into the country, Muck,” Dave said. But his mind was beginning to churn now as well. “We can certainly use all the local support we can get. But we’re not fighting Turkmenistan. If we drop a squad in there, aren’t we stirring up more trouble rather than trying to contain trouble? We should try to get some kind of cooperation from the Turkmenis — if that’s even possible.”

Patrick thought for another moment; then: “Then why not ask the guy in charge?” he remarked. He picked up the phone and spoke, “Duty Officer, call President Jalaluddin Turabi in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan. Private line.”

“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computerized ever-present voice of Dreamland’s virtual information and access service responded. “Please stand by.” Patrick hung up the phone.

“Assuming he knows anything,” Dave said. “He may be the president, but the Russians still have their boots on his neck pretty well.”

“We’ll find out.” A few minutes later the phone rang, and Patrick picked it up. “General McLanahan.”

“This is Rejep Aydogdijev, assistant deputy chief of staff to President Turabi of Turkmenistan,” a heavily accented voice said in halting English. “All communications with the president from overseas must originate from our embassy in Washington. Good night.” And the call was abruptly terminated.

“Ever get tired of being hung up on, Muck?” Dave deadpanned.

“Yes — but hopefully this won’t be one of them,” Patrick said calmly. He surfed a bit around the Internet, mostly on sites regarding the Qagev dynasty of Iran and its surviving members. “Where’s Hal?”

Dave summoned Hal Briggs to the command center via the “Duty Officer. What do you have in mind, Muck?” he asked after Hal acknowledged the order.

“It depends on what Jalaluddin says.”

“You going to call the State Department and ask…?”

Just then the phone beeped. Patrick smiled, shook his head, held up a finger, and spoke: “McLanahan here.” He noted the line was secure — he must have been working late in the office.

“My old friend the troublemaker,” Jalaluddin Turabi greeted him. “I hope you and your son are well.”

“We are very well, Jala,” Patrick replied. “How is your new wife?”

“She drinks like a Russian, spends money like a Saudi — but fortunately makes love like a Californian. She has already honored me with two healthy sons.”

“Congratulations.”

“Why do you call, my friend?”

“I want to ask about a certain incident in the Tolkuchka Bazaar yesterday. I’ll ask plainly — did the Iranians capture an Iranian princess and her family?”

Patrick heard a loud commotion in the background — it was Turabi, obviously chastising someone, loudly trying to chase them out of earshot. A few moments later: “So. Are your eyes on the ground or still in the sky?”

“In the sky — for now.”

“We see your big space station over us almost every night now, and I tell my men, the Americans will be critiquing everyone’s lovemaking skills, so be diligent,” Turabi said with a laugh. “Well, my friend, all of your eyes are very good — as I well know. Yes, it is true: the Shahdokht Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the surviving heir to the Qagev royal dynasty, was captured in the bazaar shortly after she arrived from a flight from Canada via Istanbul.”

“I thought all the king’s children were murdered by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”

“Apparently not, my friend.”

“The Iranians have her?”

“One of my military police battalion commanders, more loyal to the Iranians than to their own people — or paid off better — assisted the deputy chief of mission Fattah to place several pro-monarchy loyalists under surveillance and capture them once they were found,” Turabi said. “But it was only the daughter, Azar, not the mother and father. The daughter was accompanied by two bodyguards. I believe they were taken to the federal jail here in the capital.”

“I would rather not assault your jail, Jala,” Patrick said, “so if it’s possible to sneak her out, I can snatch her. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Turabi said. “I can advise you when we have her, and then you can, as you put it, ‘snatch’ her.”

“Thank you, Jala. You can loudly and publicly protest any actions that may take place in your country in the next few days,” Patrick said.

“That I can do very easily, my friend — you can be assured of that,” Turabi said. “We have spoken long enough, and I do not want to hear any more anyway. Peace be with you, my friend.” And the connection was broken.

Hal Briggs and Chris Wohl returned to the command center when Patrick hung up, and Hal had someone with him that Patrick did not recognize. “Sir, I’d like to introduce you to Captain Charlie Turlock,” Hal said.

Patrick got to his feet, confusion evident in his face. “Charlie Turlock?” The more confused he looked the broader the smile became on Hal’s face.

“Problem, sir?” Turlock asked.

Patrick glanced at Hal’s smile, nodded knowingly, and shook Turlock’s hand. “Sorry, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs failed to inform me that Charlie Turlock was a woman. Is that your real name, a nickname, or a call-sign?”

“Unfortunately ’Charlie’ is my real first name, sir,” the newcomer replied. “My dad wanted a son and thought I’d need a boy’s name to make it in the world, and out of respect for him I never changed it.”

“And I suppose you like seeing the confused faces of the men who make incorrect assumptions about you and don’t do their homework.”

Turlock smiled. “Something like that, sir.”

“I’ll deal with General Briggs later. Welcome to Dreamland.”

“Thank you, sir,” Charlie said. She was a little over average height, with strawberry-blond hair pulled up and off her shoulders, revealing a long, graceful, athletically tanned neck. Other than her dancing green eyes it was hard to make out any distinguishing features about her, dressed as she was in her army combat uniform, but the one thing Patrick did notice was her supreme air of confidence. Most junior officers and enlisted personnel withered and shriveled in the presence of so many stars and stripes in one room, but Turlock definitely wasn’t one of them. “I’ve heard all the stories and rumors about this place, and I’ve always wanted to visit. I assume there’s a lot more to this place than what you see when you drive on post?”

“Sure is, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs will show you around. I’m looking forward to seeing a demonstration of your Cybernetic Infantry Devices. I’ve seen their aftermath on TV, of course, but I’d like to get an up-close and personal tour.”

“The CID units, sir?” Charlie asked, confused. “I assumed you were interested in the National Guard’s next-generation airships — that’s what I’m prepared to demonstrate for you.”

“I am, Charlie, but my primary interest right now is the CID units,” Patrick said.

“I don’t have access to any of the CID units any more,” Charlie admitted. “The program was canceled and I’ve since lost track of the CIDs. I don’t even know if the Infantry Transformational Battlelab at Fort Polk assigned anyone else to the project — I wouldn’t even know whom to refer you to.”

“We know all about the CID program — in fact, we bought it,” Patrick said.

“You bought the Cybernetic Infantry Device program? All of it?”

“It seems the Army was rather anxious to get rid of the four CID units they had. They didn’t let them go cheaply, but they gave us everything — almost your entire lab at Fort Polk. The units, your computers, files, and equipment are in your new facility. We don’t have anything plugged in or set up, but we have guys ready to help you, and we can get more technical or specialized help fairly quickly.”

“‘Help me?’ Help me do what, sir?”

“Help you set up your lab here at Dreamland and develop them for the Air Battle Force ground forces, under my command,” Hal Briggs said.

“What does the Air Force want with manned robots?”

“The Air Battle Force combines both air and ground strike forces into one integrated unit, Charlie,” Hal said. “Our specialty is sending small, high-tech, highly mobile forces anywhere in the world in less than a day, and we’re working on technology that will get them there even quicker.”

“Like a Marine Recon force?” Charlie asked, looking at Chris Wohl.

“Think half the size, three times the speed, and four times the firepower,” Hal said. “But your CID units have capabilities that even our Tin Men don’t have.”

“‘Tin Men’?”

“Our version of CID,” Dave said. “Not as armored or strong as CID, but ten times as capable as an infantry soldier in the field.”

“You’re offering me a job out here?”

“Your official base of operations will be Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base up in northern Nevada,” Patrick said, “but you’ll test and evaluate your systems down here in Dreamland. You’ll be deployed quite often with the Air Battle Force and with other agencies. If you don’t mind moving out to the high desert and working in a place where everything you do is monitored twenty-four-seven, we’d be thrilled to have you.”

“Moving to Vegas sounds cool, sir — the monitoring thing, not so cool,” Charlie admitted. “Is that necessary?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Patrick said. “You get used to it. Dave, Hal, and I have all been wired for sound for almost twenty years.”

“‘Wired for sound…?’”

“I can’t get into details yet,” Patrick said. “Hal can explain more after the necessary waivers and disclosures are signed. If you don’t agree it’s the place for you, we’ll send you back to the Guard training center in Los Alamitos, and we’ll get to work on the CIDs ourselves.”

That seemed to change Charlie’s attitude. “Frankly, sir, I’d rather the CIDs stayed in storage than have anyone else messing with them,” she said. “I’ll listen to General Briggs…I can’t promise you anything else.”

“I’ll tell you right now up front, it’s not the kind of posting you can just walk away from in a year or two,” Patrick warned her. “It’s one of those lifelong commitments that go way beyond just getting a security clearance and special access. It’s intense. It’ll affect you and everyone you come in contact with for the rest of your life.”

Charlie smiled a tomboyish, mischievous grin at that last statement. “If that was meant to talk me out of it, sir, it failed,” she said. “I’ll make up my mind after I talk with General Briggs, but I think I’ll do just fine here.”

“Good,” Patrick said. “I’ll need your CIDs up and running as soon as possible.”

“Meaning…?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I haven’t even agreed to come here yet!”

“You’ll find that everything we do here at Dreamland needs to be done by tomorrow…or, better, later the same day, Captain,” Dave Luger said seriously. “But we have a lot of tools and gadgets of our own that help facilitate that.”

That seemed to pique Turlock’s interest even more. “Yes, sir,” was all she could say.

“We’re pretty informal around here, Charlie,” Patrick said. “The uniform of the day is always utility uniform; your work hours are your own; we keep mandatory formations, inspections, and functions to a bare minimum except for security purposes. Most of all, we encourage thinking outside the box, and we do everything we can to get you what you need or want. No request or idea is too outlandish — tell us what you want to do and we’ll move mountains to get it for you. Literally.”

Charlie looked at each of the men around her — from the scowling, impatient, pent-up energy of the Marine Corps master sergeant to the smiling, animated one-star general that brought him here, to the infamous three-star general leading this group — and liked what she saw. The Army was always so serious and regimented, and these guys were a definite departure from that. “Let me see the CID units, sir,” she said, “and I’ll tell you how soon I can get them ready for action.”

“Excellent,” Patrick said. He shook Charlie’s hand again. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll need volunteers to pilot the CIDs.”

“Count me out,” Chris Wohl growled.

“You’re too tall anyway, Master Sergeant,” Charlie said. Wohl nodded imperceptibly — that seemed to suit him just fine.

“I’ll be the first volunteer,” Hal said. “I’ve wanted to check one out ever since I saw ’em on TV. I think we’ll have plenty of volunteers for the other units. BERP is good, but I think CIDs are way cooler.”

“On your way, Captain,” Patrick said. “Hal, report back in one hour and let me know what we’re looking at. Let Dave know if you’re having any trouble detaching Charlie from the Guard.”

“You got it.”

Patrick could see Charlie shaking her head in amazement and excitement at the whirlwind of activity and the close personal camaraderie that existed in this place — he knew that she knew she was signing onto something truly extraordinary. “That’s the expression I like seeing in the newcomer’s faces around here,” he said to Dave Luger as she was led away.

“Sorry I didn’t brief you on her, Muck,” Dave said. “I should have known Hal wouldn’t have told you — he’d want to see your expression.” He noticed Patrick looking in the direction she and Hal had gone. “What do you think, Muck?”

“‘Think’? About what? About Turlock? She hasn’t done anything yet. Her record is impressive, and if that robot thing is half of what it’s cracked up to be…”

“No, I mean…”

“Mean what, Dave?” Patrick admonished his friend, perhaps a little more harshly than he wanted. He scowled first at Dave, then at himself when he realized he was still standing and still turned in the direction she had left. “We’ll need to get those robot things ready to go ASAP,” he said gruffly as he took his seat again. “From what Hal said, those robots take up a lot of room, even folded up, and they’re way too big to be worn while inside the Black Stallion’s passenger module. We’ll need spacesuits for whoever rides in the passenger modules that will be piloting the CIDs. We’ll need those right away.”

“No problem,” Dave said. “But we may not get clearance to go in to look for missiles for a few days.”

“I want to go in tomorrow, as soon as we’ve installed the thermal blanketing in the modules.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I thought you just told the captain that we always want things done tomorrow!” Patrick said with a smile. “Well, you were absolutely right.”

“Where do you want to take the Black Stallions, Muck?”

“I want a ground force to go into Turkmenistan, rescue this princess, turn her over to her followers, then travel into Iran with her and stand by to move against the Iranian missile sites.”

“Why waste time with this princess, Muck?” Dave asked, his head shaking in confusion. “If our mission is to find and neutralize the Iranian missiles, let’s send the entire ground force out there.”

“I can’t explain it any further, Dave, but I think that princess…”

“If she’s who Turabi says she is!”

“…is an important key to whatever happens in Iran — even as much as Buzhazi. If we can track her, I want to try to rescue her. If we lose contact for whatever reason, we’ll send the entire force after the Iranian missiles.”

“I think it’s pretty damned risky to send a squad after this unknown person, Muck,” Dave said seriously. “I’d be very surprised if the President authorizes it.”

“Until we find those Iranian missiles and plan a way to neutralize them,” Patrick said, “I think the only way we’ll get any Battle Force ground units into the region is through Turkmenistan. Once Jalaluddin gives us a location, we swoop in, snatch the girl, and get out.”

“To tell you the truth, Muck, I don’t trust your friend Turabi,” Dave said. “He may be a swashbuckling hero to the Turkmenis, but to me he’s just an opportunistic Taliban fighter who does whatever he needs to do to survive. I find it a little suspicious when a guy who has ambushed and disrupted the Russians as much as he has in the past few years is still surviving in that country, literally surrounded shoulder-to-shoulder by Russians and Iranians.”

“He’s our best contact inside the country, Dave,” Patrick said. “We have pretty good eyes over Turkmenistan now, so if he comes through we can be on the lookout for trouble when we move in. Besides, he owes us for saving his neck — twice.”

The concern on Dave Luger’s face bothered him, but Patrick held firm. “I need Hal to draw up a plan to infiltrate into Turkmenistan with a Black Stallion and a combined CID and Tin Man squad,” he said, “assault wherever Jalaluddin manages to transfer this Qagev princess to, spring her, take her to wherever she was going to contact her underground network, set her on the path, and follow her in to Iran.”

“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions here, Muck,” Dave said, trying one more time to dissuade his old friend from this plan. “My recommendation would be to go to the National Security Council and the President with a plan to assault the most likely locations of Iran’s medium- and long-range missiles capable of carrying weapons of mass destruction. The list will be refined as we move in. Once we nail down the locations, we attack with everything we’ve got — orbital weapons, ground forces, and air-launched weapons from the Megafortresses. We punch Iran’s missile threat off the board in one night. The Revolutionary Guards now need to deal with threats on multiple fronts — Buzhazi’s insurgency, us, and possible action from the regular army. We’ll have them back on their heels.”

Patrick thought for a moment. “Dave, yours is a good plan,” Patrick said, “but my gut still tells me that this princess is important. I don’t know how I know, but I think she’s the key to a non-Islamist future for Iran. But I’ll pitch your plan as well. Either way, we’ll get our forces moving in the right direction. I think they’ll buy my plan only because it doesn’t immediately put the Battle Force on the ground in Iran.”

“But you have to trust Turabi.”

Patrick hesitated again, but shook his head. “I know, but I think the reward is worth the risk,” he said. “Help Hal and Chris draw up both plans and have them ready for me as soon as possible.”

“Roger that,” Dave said. “What about Buzhazi? Are we done trying to help him?”

“We’ll re-evaluate once he surfaces or makes contact with us,” Patrick said, “but Buzhazi has to sink or swim on his own. He should be enlisting the help of the regular army if they have any hope for stopping the Pasdaran — otherwise a hundred squads of Tin Men or CIDs won’t do much good against a hundred thousand Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”

Dave sat down at his console in the command center and began to outline his thoughts for the mission into Turkmenistan. They were very familiar with the military situation in Turkmenistan. Most of the country’s small police and self-defense forces were used for just one thing: maintaining a strong government presence in the capital city of Ashkhabad to control the spread and growth of radical Islamist groups. The Russian military and private security firms handled security for their own oil executives, refineries, storage facilities, and pipelines — and they did so with such utter brutality that attacks were rare. Border security was almost nonexistent — in fact, the country generally encouraged foreign workers to come to work in the arid, barren country, documented or not.

About an hour later, Hal Briggs rejoined them in the battle staff area. “I think Turlock’s in,” he told Patrick and Dave. “We impressed the hell out of her with having all her CID gear in a lab ready for her. She even activated one of the robots and had me get inside.”

“What’s it like?” Patrick asked.

“Awesome!” Hal exclaimed. “The thing unfolds itself in less than thirty seconds and it stands about nine feet tall, like an Erector Set — looking robot with skin. It sort of crouches down, and you climb up the legs and slide inside, and you’re wrapped in this snug scratchy Neoprene-like stuff. The back closes up and you feel like you’re going to suffocate for a few seconds…and then you feel like you’re standing naked in the middle of the room. You have absolutely no sensation that you’re inside a machine. The hydraulics actuate a hundred times faster than the Tin Man exoskeleton, and they’re far stronger.”

“Downsides?”

“Other than the size, not much,” Hal said. “Turlock says the CIDs are equivalent in speed and firepower to a Humvee missile or machine gun squad, and I’d agree. It’s not a sneak-and-peek system like the Tin Men — it’s definitely a break-the-door-down-and-kick-ass system. It’s not that heavy, but it’s bulky. The things suck a lot of power, and I’d say bringing spare power cells for any missions longer than an hour or so is a must. Good thing is, those things can carry a lot of stuff on a mission — a spare backpack and a spare power cell are easy, along with the mission backpack it wears. It definitely has a very high coolness factor.”

“Are they ready to go?”

“Two of them appear to be. One looks like it’s damaged; not sure about the fourth. Turlock says we definitely have two CIDs, two twenty-millimeter machine gun backpacks, two forty-millimeter missile backpacks, one ‘Goose’ mini-UAV launcher backpack — another very cool gadget that launches these bowling-pin — sized UAVs out that sends pictures back to the CIDs — and five spare power cells. I think we’re good to go.”

“Good, because we’re planning a mission to Turkmenistan for tomorrow night,” Dave said.

“Turkmenistan? Jala Turabi? Is he in trouble? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“The general wants to rescue an Iranian princess before she’s sent back to Iran, probably to be executed.”

“A princess? Is she cute?”

“She’s fifteen years old, you letch.”

“Still cool. Doesn’t give us much time to train in the CIDs, though.”

“Do you need more time?”

“I could sure use it,” Hal admitted. “I recommend we send Chris and three Tin Men to Turkmenistan in the Black Stallion — that way I can spend more time in the CIDs. It won’t take long to get up to speed on them, but one day is not enough time. I’ll be studying the manual on the electronic visor graphics and controls all night as it is.”

“All right — I’ll pitch that to General Sparks and see how they like it,” Patrick said. “Get it ready to go ASAP.”

“I am privileged to speak to you tonight on the eve of your commissioning ceremony,” Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces General Hoseyn Yassini said. He was standing before an audience of three hundred senior classmen of the Imam Ali Military Academy, after hosting their pre-commissioning dinner. Although he was still a virtual prisoner in his residence at the Academy, he was permitted to carry out ceremonial and VIP functions, and he did so with enthusiasm. As always, if the students knew he was there under house arrest, as they certainly must have by now, they showed no signs of any displeasure. “This is one of my many official tasks that I am pleased and genuinely happy to perform.

“For two years now you have been immersed in the important tasks of training and disciplining your minds and bodies for the challenges that lay ahead. You may indeed believe that your reward for two years of Hell in his place is a lifetime of Hell on the battlefield. Well, my soon-to-be fellow officers, that is not just a cute saying — it’s the truth. But as your chief of staff, I want to be the first to thank you for your courage and dedication to such a life. I thank you, and your country thanks you. I encourage you to use the knowledge and skills you have learned here to broaden your minds to the world and the challenges that lay ahead. Do not shrink from these challenges, but embrace them.”

Yassini raised a large ornate golden flask, with a winged lion’s head and shoulders in front and a funnel-shaped cup in back. “Allow me the honor of toasting the republic’s newest officers in the ancient traditions. This is the rhython, a batu flask dating back to the Achemenid Empire of five hundred B.C., used by the kings of ancient Persia to toast to victory before sending his generals off to battle. Whenever the rhython was used, the generals of Persia were never defeated in battle.” He raised the gleaming gold flask. “Gentlemen, to our republic’s future military leaders, the prayers and thanks of a grateful and proud nation. May you continue to grow in knowledge, courage, and strength.”

He took a sip from the cup, then passed it to the cadet commander, who immediately passed it to his deputy commander without drinking. The deputy touched the rim to his lips but did not drink. He passed it to the cadet operations officer, who also touched it to his lips, then passed it to the commander of the honor battalion. Most of the cadets did not drink from the cup; a few did, and received warning glares and stern expressions from the others.

“And now, my soon-to-be fellow officers, the table and the evening are yours — I have spoken far too much already,” Yassini said. “Enjoy yourselves tonight, but be ready for the parade at dawn. Congratulations again. Allah akbar. Cadet Commander, take charge of your corps.” The cadet commander called the cadets to attention, and Yassini left the dais.

The cadet corps deputy commander escorted Yassini out of the hall and waited until his car was brought around, but Yassini waved the car away, preferring to walk back to his quarters. As he turned and headed off, several men alighted from the car and quickly caught up to the chief of staff. “Well, well, General, that was quite a surprise,” Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps commander Brigadier-General Ali Zolqadr said as he strode beside Yassini. “Is this a new tradition you’re starting tonight? Where did you get the rhython?”

“I requested it from the Museum of Ancient Cultures. Don’t worry — the museum will see to it that it’s returned safely tonight.”

“I’m not worried about the flask, General, but the spirit in which it was used tonight,” Zolqadr said. “Toasting the cadet corps with alcohol? Such things are strictly forbidden by the Prophet, blessed be his name, and the Faqih has expressly prohibited alcohol of any kind and for any purpose on all official government or religious property.”

“Toasting success and courage with the rhython is a Persian tradition dating back over two thousand years, Zolqadr,” Yassini said. “The only time it hasn’t been used is in the past thirty years, since the revolution. I’m not starting anything new, Zolqadr, just restoring a long-employed honor. The cadets will never forget this night, believe me, even the ones who did not drink.”

“I was relieved to see that most refused to drink, unlike yourself,” Zolqadr said. “They know that alcohol is a corrupting and unholy vice that stains and perverses body, mind, and soul. Pity you fail to recognize that same truth.”

“It’s not a truth, Zolqadr — it’s a belief,” Yassini said.

“No, General, it’s the law, based on teachings and commands handed down to us from God through the Prophet and codified by the Faqih,” Zolqadr said. “That should be simple enough for you to understand.”

Yassini knew he was never going to win any argument with a zealot — no, make that a fanatic — like Zolqadr, even if his beliefs were based solely on his thirst for power and not true personal faith. “You didn’t come here to lecture me, General. What do you want?”

“No, General, I did not. I’m here to place you under arrest for crimes against the Islamic Republic and for conspiracy to aid the enemies of the republic.”

Yassini stopped, and only then noticed the three armed soldiers walking behind him. “You can’t arrest me, Zolqadr,” Yassini said. “I report only to the minister of defense or the Supreme National Security Deputate, not to the Pasdaran.”

“Wrong again, Yassini,” Zolqadr said gleefully. “As of tonight, the Pasdaran has once again been detached from its subordinate position in the Ministry of Defense and has been placed directly in the hands of the Director of the Supreme National Security Deputate, where the blessed Ayatollah Khomeini first assigned it and where it properly belongs as an instrument of divine retribution. My orders come directly from the Ayatollah Mohtaz. The Supreme National Security Deputate has charged you with treason and conspiracy to commit treason, and you are hereby ordered to be placed under arrest and confinement pending summary court-martial.”

A line of three vehicles, two sedans and one armored troop transport, pulled up to the front of the Sapamurad Niyazov Center for Public Law and Order criminal justice building in the center of the Turkmeni capital. A squad of soldiers ran out of the building and took up defensive positions around the vehicles, scanning the streets and surrounding buildings for any sign of trouble. Moments later a door on the armored vehicle swung open, followed by the doors to the building, and three persons in handcuffs and leg restraints were led from the building into the armored vehicles. As soon as they were inside, the guards were recalled and the armored vehicle and their escorts sped away.

Unseen by anyone who might be watching the operation — unlikely, since the police enforced a strict dawn-to-dusk curfew in the capital district of the city, punishable by caning — was a second armored vehicle that had slipped in to a fenced official parking lot in the rear of the building. A single guard opened the barbed-wire-topped gate and let the armored car through. The vehicle drove to a dark rear corner of the lot and parked near several other similar vehicles, and moments later the driver alighted and walked away, exiting the lot without turning back. Except for the occasional squawk of a peacock — used in Turkmenistan like a watchdog — the place quickly fell silent once again.

Several minutes later a sedan was admitted through the gate, and it parked a few yards away from the armored vehicle. Two security guards, with AKS-74 assault rifles at the ready, emerged from the sedan and took up guard positions. Moments later, a man in a long coat emerged, went around to the other side of the sedan, and opened the door for Turkmeni president Jalaluddin Turabi.

“Everything is clear, sir,” the chief of Turabi’s security detail said. “No sign of them.”

Turabi looked into the darkness outside the floodlit walls and chuckled. “They’re here, don’t worry,” he said. “They’ve probably been here for a while.” He walked over to the armored vehicle and rapped on the side door, and a guard inside opened it up. “How are you tonight, Princess?”

Azar Assiyeh Qagev leaned forward in her seat, squinting in the darkness. “Very well, thank you,” she said in passable Turkmeni, her tone of voice suspicious yet pleasant. “I presume I have the honor of addressing President Jalaluddin Turabi?”

“My staff informed me that you are observant and smart — I see they were not exaggerating,” Turabi said after shaking off his surprise.

“Do you intend on turning me over to the Iranian government without benefit of legal process?” Azar asked.

“As far as Turkmenistan is concerned, you are a citizen of the United States and Turkey, and you have broken no laws in Turkmenistan,” Turabi said. “If Iran has charged you with serious crimes, according to treaty you must be taken before a judge who will hear their arguments. But we have reason to believe your life is in danger, so you will be taken someplace safe until your extradition hearing.”

“I am forever in your debt, Mr. President,” Azar said.

“Why are you in Turkmenistan, Princess?” Turabi asked. “Certainly not to upgrade our cellular phone system.”

“I hope I don’t appear ungrateful, sir,” Azar said, “but I don’t wish to discuss this without benefit of legal counsel. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Turabi said, checking his watch. “I was hoping there was some other way I could help, that’s all.”

“Things look quiet out here, One,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl radioed via the Tin Man battle armor’s built-in satellite transceiver. Wohl was hidden at the rendezvous point suggested by Jalaluddin Turabi, observing the area for any signs of danger. “Turabi just showed up. You copy, Genesis?”

“Roger that,” Dave Luger radioed from the Dreamland Battle Management area. “Sorry, but it looks like the drone you launched isn’t sending any video, just stills every few minutes. You copy us, Stud Five?”

“Roger,” Hunter Noble responded. He was patrolling the southern section of their landing spot outside of the capital, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. “We lost the video too, so we’re all out patrolling the area.” He looked over to where his copilot and mission commander, Captain Wil Lefferts, was nervously pacing, another H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Six’s about ready to have a cow, I think.”

“What’s wrong, Five?”

“Nothing — it’s just quiet as hell out here,” Boomer replied. “Wil — er, I mean, Six — jumps at every little sound.” He peered out through the darkness. His eyes were finally getting night-adapted, and he could see more and more details of their surroundings. “This is a great landing site, guys — a road plenty long for us to land on, lots of cover, far from any major highways, and open space for Stud Four to run around.” Boomer had landed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane outside a large truck parking area several miles outside the capital city of Ashkhabad. The facility appeared to be abandoned — it was easy to find from the air, easy to approach, and easy to touch down. There was a long, wide access road to the west of the complex, and that’s where Boomer landed the XR-A9.

“Just keep your eyes open, guys,” Dave said. He didn’t voice his main concerns again — the fact that Jalaluddin Turabi had recommended this spot for an insertion — because Dave had already expressed his doubts several times already. He had insisted on, and Patrick had approved, several methods to ensure that their crews weren’t walking into a trap:

The powerful sensors on Armstrong Space Station had swept the area twice in three hours prior to landing and cleared the Black Stallion to land, which made everyone feel better. There was a constellation of small NIRTSats supporting surveillance operations over Iran, and one of those satellites passed over the area every few hours to update the strategic picture of the target area.

In addition, the second XR-A9 spaceplane, launched shortly after Boomer’s, had released a Meteor payload re-entry module which seeded four surveillance drones over the area and beamed streaming video images to the Air Battle Force commandos on the ground and back to Dreamland. The drones were positioned over the landing zone and three other key places in the area: central Ashkhabad, including the government center, Hall of Justice, and the Russian embassy; the Turkmeni army barracks south of the city; and Ashkhabad-Berzien Military Airfield west of the city.

Unfortunately two of the drones malfunctioned — one crashed someplace in the desert shortly after release, and the second was still aloft but not sending any video. Dave had carefully considered requesting that they abort the mission because of the lack of timely intelligence data on the target and the area defenses. But he knew Patrick wanted this mission to happen. So after scanning the Turkmeni air base for any sign of movement that might suggest the ground team had been discovered, Dave ordered that drone moved to the Black Stallion landing site. The drone had to fly south around the city, well away from Niyazov International Airport, to avoid discovery, so it would not be on station for several minutes — meaning the Black Stallion and its crew were on their own until the drone arrived.

“Stud Four is shifting to the south — I thought I saw headlights,” Army Sergeant Maxwell Dolan in Tin Man battle armor and powered exoskeleton radioed. “Genesis, are you receiving my video?”

“Affirmative, Four,” Dave Luger responded. Video and sensor images received by any of the Tin Men in the Air Battle Force ground team were uplinked via satellite back to the Battle Management Area at Dreamland, where they could be shared by any other member in almost real-time. “We didn’t see the lights, but proceed”—then he added—“with caution.”

That kind of chatter made Boomer very nervous — and at that moment he found himself unconsciously flicking the mode selector on his MP-5 up and down. Shit, he thought, he forgot which way the switch went for the “SAFE” position, and he didn’t want to radio the others to remind him — again — which was correct. He designed high-performance jet and rocket engines, he admonished himself, but for some damned reason he could never remember if flipping the switch up was “SAFE,” or the other way around.

Boomer moved toward a small concrete pump building a few dozen yards away from the Black Stallion, crouched down on the far side of the building, pulled a small LED flashlight from a flight suit pocket, covered the bulb as much as he could with his hand to avoid spoiling his night vision and startling Wil Lefferts, then shined it on the left side of the little submachine gun. Oh shit, he swore to himself, he had switched it to the three-round burst mode. For safety reasons there was no full-automatic mode on these weapons, just a SAFE, semi-automatic, and three-round semi-automatic mode.

OK, OK, he yelled at himself, pushing the switch down is bad — flipping it up is good. Push down to get down…that’s what the weapon instructor from Battle Mountain said when he…

Suddenly there was a tremendous burst of red and orange light, followed moments later by a tremendous “BOOOM!” so powerful that it knocked Boomer on his butt. “Stud Four, Stud Four…Max, how do you copy?” Dave Luger radioed frantically. “Come in!”

“Bastards!” Dolan radioed back. “I just got hit by a damned RPG round!” Boomer’s skin and fingers instantly turned cold. Were they under attack…?

“Are you OK?” Luger radioed.

“I’m going to blast those motherfuckers into the next century!” Dolan shouted. Boomer heard two or three sharp “CRAACK!” reports and knew that Dolan was firing his electromagnetic rail gun. “I see four armored personnel carriers and maybe one light tank approaching the area. I want…” Suddenly his audio report cut out.

“Stud Four, how do you copy?” Luger radioed. “Stud Four?” Still no response. “Stud Five and Six, Four is still on the move but I’ve lost his audio. I need you to…” At that moment the audio channel was completely blocked by loud squealing, hissing, and popping sounds so loud that Boomer found it hard to concentrate.

Wil Lefferts suddenly came into view, running over between Boomer and the Black Stallion, his MP-5 submachine gun upraised. “Boomer! Where are you?” he shouted.

“Over here!” Lefferts whirled around at the sound, aiming his gun at the voice. “Don’t shoot, you idiot!” Boomer ran over to him, then pulled him down to the ground and shoved the muzzle of the submachine gun away in a safe direction. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“What’s happening?” Lefferts yelled. His voice, and indeed his entire body, was shaking.

“We’re under attack! Let’s get the Stud ready for takeoff!”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the ground force?”

“I’m not going to lose the Stud to whoever’s attacking us,” Boomer said. “Our safest place is in the air. We’ll come back for the ground forces once the attack is over. Let’s go!” Crouching low, Boomer ran over to the spaceplane and climbed aboard, hoping Wil was right behind him. He pulled on his helmet and his lap restraints, flipped on the battery switch, and motored the canopy closed. As soon as he sensed that Wil was aboard, he commanded, “Engine start procedures.”

“Stand by for engine start procedures,” the computer responded. “Beginning before power on checklist.”

“Override,” Boomer ordered. “Begin engine start procedures.”

“Override before engine start checklist. Beginning power on…”

“Override. Begin engine start procedures.” Boomer had to repeat the override command for each of the checklists he wanted to skip, having to wait for the computer’s warning and verification messages each time. It seemed to take forever, but finally the computer was on the right page.

The first human interaction step wasn’t for almost another twenty seconds, so Boomer securely strapped himself into his seat and made sure Wil was doing the same — and then he looked out to his right, and his jaw dropped. Sergeant Max — Boomer wasn’t sure of his last name — was standing less than fifty yards away from the Black Stallion’s right wingtip, the electromagnetic rail gun in his arm, firing into the darkness. Every few seconds he would shift positions, darting back and forth with amazing speed, occasionally going out of sight as he moved away from the XR-A9 or back toward it to block a round fired at it. Seconds after he’d fire there was a tremendous explosion off in the distance, and often several secondary explosions as well. Boomer couldn’t believe he was moving like that after already being hit by a rocket-propelled grenade round!

The sergeant turned toward the Stud and gestured frantically down the road, urging them to take off. The checklist was proceeding normally — still ten seconds to the first hold. Finally Boomer spoke the “Acknowledge” command, verifying that the crew was ready for engine start, and the auxiliary power unit spun up and began shunting compressed air into the number two engine. The big engine took a long time to spin up, but finally it reached twenty-five percent RPMs and the fuel began injecting…

Boomer happened to glance up right before light-off…just in time to see a heavy explosive round hit the sergeant square in the chest, then instantly disappear in a blinding globe of fire. “Oh, shit,” Wil exclaimed. “My God…!”

“Get ready for takeoff — we’re going as soon as we got the power,” Boomer said. He already pre-loaded “Override” commands to the computer — it might not accept any of them except the first one, but he had to do something while he was waiting for the computer to catch up. Finally the first engine was started. Boomer’s first order to simultaneously run the “Before Taxi, Taxi,” and “Before Takeoff” checklists while the other three engines were being started were accepted, and Boomer instantly took manual control of the steering switch and…

At that moment a streak of fire raced out of the darkness, and they felt a massive shudder and heard a deafening “BOOM!” A small explosive round, probably an RPG, hit the Black Stallion’s right main landing gear. The right wing immediately flew upward a few feet, then came crashing down all the way to the ground. “Evacuate! Now!” Boomer cried. He ordered the computer to perform the “Emergency Shut Down” checklist, but it was already being done. He knew the Stud wasn’t going to be flying anytime soon — if ever — so instead of motoring the canopy up, he hit the yellow and black striped “EMER CANOPY” button to blow the cockpit canopy off the aircraft. He hurriedly unstrapped and waited for the canopy behind him to blow before standing up in his seat.

To his shock, Boomer found the aft canopy gone, but Wil was nowhere to be seen. Boomer jumped down off the spaceplane and found his copilot and mission commander lying facefirst on the hard sandy ground. “C’mon, Wil, we gotta get out of here,” he said.

“I’m hit,” Wil muttered, barely audible over the gunfire just on the other side of the plane, getting closer by the second. Boomer couldn’t see any of his wounds, but he could feel the blood covering him everywhere he touched. “Jeez, Boomer, I’m hit…”

“We’re outta here.” Boomer began dragging Lefferts away……just as another explosive ripped across the Black Stallion, sending pieces of composite skin flying in the air atop a column of fire. Boomer, egged on by the feeling that the entire front of his body was afire, kept on going as fast as he could. He knew that the concrete pump house was the only bit of cover nearby, so he pulled and pulled as fast as he…

Just then it appeared as if the entire fuselage of the XR-A9 Black Stallion erupted and burst apart like a child’s balloon. Boomer had a brief sensation of floating in mid-air before hitting something behind him. The cloud of fire and smoke enveloped him, as did several pieces of his beloved spaceplane, and then everything went dark…

“I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. President,” Azar said. “I am thankful and more than a little surprised to be under the supervision of the president of Turkmenistan himself.” She paused, then asked, “Whom are we waiting for, Mr. President?”

“Your benefactors, Princess,” Turabi said. “I wish I could take all the credit for this event, but I’m doing this as a favor to an old friend.”

“I am still grateful for any assistance you might provide us, Mr. President.”

“Not at all.” Turabi looked at his watch impatiently. “But if your benefactors don’t show up soon, there might be…how shall I say it…unexpected complications.”

“Like what, Turabi?” an electronically synthesized voice said in Turkmeni. The ex — Afghan fighter whirled around. Perched atop a nearby lamppost, completely hidden in the shadows and glare, was a figure in a dark outfit. “What are you doing here?”

Those on the ground could make out no other details — but despite that, Turabi smiled. “Judging by your size and gruff tone of voice, I would say I am speaking to the infamous Master Sergeant Christopher Wohl,” he said. Azar strained to see who Turabi was talking to, but that was impossible. “I am here to make sure this transfer goes smoothly.”

“That was not smart, Turabi,” the voice of Chris Wohl said. “You should get out of here, now.”

“Where is your comrade General Briggs?”

“Never mind the chit-chat, Turabi,” Wohl said. “Turn that armored car around and head for the airport as planned.”

“Very well, very well,” Turabi said. “I will leave the rest in your very capable hands, Master Sergeant.” He shouted orders to the drivers and guards, who closed the doors and boarded the armored car, then motioned to his guards. “Open the gates and let the vehicles pass.” He got into his sedan and, with his guards flanking the vehicle, it motored in reverse toward the gate.

Chris jumped down from his hiding place and approached the armored vehicle. The guards fearfully stepped back away from the menacing figure, their weapons upraised. Parviz Najar and Mara Saidi pushed Azar behind them protectively when they saw the gray-clad helmeted figure in the door of the vehicle. “Stop where you are!” Najar shouted in Farsi.

“I am here to take the princess and you out of here,” Chris spoke in electronically synthesized Farsi. “Get in the driver’s seat.”

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?” Chris responded through his electronic translator. “Use the vehicle radio or telephone to contact your network and let’s get out of here.”

“What network? What princess? What are you talking about?”

“Listen carefully,” the unearthly apparition said angrily, leaning into the vehicle menacingly to emphasize his point. “I don’t know you, and I don’t care one bit about you, but I’ve been ordered to get you out of the city and in the hands of your escape network into Iran. If you deny you’re the Iranian princess and her bodyguards who escaped from protective custody in the United States and are trying to return to Iran, then I’ve made a mistake. In that case, I’ll be happy to leave you here in the custody of the Turkmenis and the Iranians. Now which will it be?”

Azar elbowed her way between Najar and Saidi. “I am Azar Qagev, sir, heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia,” she said in perfect English, “and I am grateful for your help. Major, take the wheel. Lieutenant, get those weapons from the guards, then call the secondary blind drop number as soon as we’re on our way. We’ll proceed to the secondary contact point as planned.”

“Glad to see someone’s taking charge and not playing games,” Chris said. “Move out.”

“Where will you be, sir?”

“Not far. Move.” And in the blink of an eye, he disappeared.

But just as they got turned around and started heading out of the parking lot, several military vehicles swarmed down the street outside. Suddenly every floodlight in the lot snapped on, bathing them all in a harsh, inescapable glare. The exit was quickly blocked by three armored vehicles with machine gunners ready in their gun turrets. “Nobody move!” a voice on a loudspeaker blared in English. “By order of the Turkmenistan Capital District Federal Police, you are all under arrest!” But it was soon obvious that these soldiers were not the same casual, ill-outfitted soldiers from the bazaar: they wore civilian clothes like the locals, but they did not look like Turkmenis. In moments about two dozen men armed with AK-74 assault rifles surrounded Azar’s armored vehicle. One of them yanked open the door, disarmed Najar and Saidi, and pulled all three of them out of the vehicle.

Jalaluddin Turabi got out of his sedan. “I am sorry to do this, Master Sergeant Wohl,” he shouted in halting English, looking carefully around him for any sign of trouble, knowing the American could hear him, “but the Iranians were most insistent on keeping custody of the princess and having her reveal her network. But what they would really like is you. Apparently they were impressed by your performance in Qom not long ago, and they wish to inspect your armor technology up close. If you don’t want to see the girl and her bodyguards slaughtered before your eyes, come out here, now.” No response, only the sounds of more Iranian Revolutionary Guards swarming the area. “You have no chance of escape, Master Sergeant. You’ve come an awfully long way just to see the princess die and your missions fail. The Iranians don’t want you — they want your armor, weapons, and aircraft technology. You will be saving lives if you cooperate. I have received their assurances that they will let you and your men, here and at the truck farm, leave the country unharmed if you drop your weapons and remove your armor. Surrender now and…”

At that moment there were three simultaneous explosions right in front of Turabi as the three Iranian armored vehicles blocking the entrance to the parking lot disappeared in massive clouds of fire and smoke. Turabi was knocked off his feet by the triple blasts. After finding himself dazed but unhurt on the ground, he picked himself up and took cover behind his sedan, away from the burning vehicles.

Through the sounds of burning and popping metal, Turabi heard another series of noises, ones he had heard a long time ago but remembered as clearly as yesterday — brief screams, occasional gunshots, followed by a sickening, gory crunching sound and a loud THUD! somewhere off in the distance. He didn’t hesitate, but immediately whirled and started running down the street…

…only to be stopped after just a few strides by what felt and looked like a steel wall that suddenly appeared directly in front of him. Turabi ran headlong into the obstruction and fell flat-out backward, semiconscious.

When he could see straight again, he was staring up at Qagev, Najar, and Saidi looking down at him — and standing beside them was one of the American Tin Men, its helmeted face, smooth armor, and massive tank-killing weapon making it look even more the wraithlike avenger he knew it was. The armored figure knelt beside him. “Kill me, Wohl,” Turabi said, coughing up blood from a smashed nose. “Get it over with.”

“Why, Turabi?” Chris Wohl asked. “Why did you cooperate with the damned Iranians? McLanahan was your friend.”

“‘Friend?’ He abandoned me in this hell-hole, surrounded by thousands of damned Iranians,” Turabi said weakly. “I barely escape one assassination attempt by those bastards every week. Half my government has been paid off by Iran, and the suburbs outside the capital are swarming with Iranian-trained insurgents all waiting to sweep in and take over. The only way I could survive after becoming part of this damned government was to cooperate with them.”

“You told them about us, about the Air Battle Force?”

“I told them you would be rescuing the princess, and they thought they could capture you and your spacecraft,” Turabi said.

“Shit,” Chris swore, rising to his feet. He spoke through the Tin Man battlesuit’s built-in satellite transceiver: “Stud Four.” No response. “Stud Four, how do you copy?” Still no response. He cursed himself for not checking in more often with the XR-A9 Black Stallion crew. “All Stud units, report back to the landing zone on the double and assist Stud Four. Prepare to engage hostile forces.” He received two acknowledgments. He knelt down again and stuck his helmeted face close to the stricken Turkmeni president’s. “Why didn’t you ask for our help, Turabi? The general would have sent an entire army to help you. He would have taken you out of here if that’s what you wanted.”

“I’m an Afghan and a soldier, Wohl, not a charity case,” Turabi said. “The Iranians offered me a life back in Afghanistan — money, weapons, and assistance in raising an army again in my own homeland. All I had to do was help them capture you, then turn over control of the government to their hand-picked Islamist puppet. McLanahan offered me a pat on the head and nothing else except virtual captivity here in this miserable dustbowl.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. “What are you going to offer me now, Master Sergeant?”

“Just this, you fucking coward,” Chris Wohl said darkly…then delivered a single blow to the Afghan’s face that penetrated all the way down hard enough to crack the pavement below his head. Azar and her bodyguards watched as Turabi’s head exploded like a ripe tomato under a sledgehammer. Wohl wiped his left fist off on Turabi’s robes, then stood and faced the three Iranians. “I’ll escort you to the outskirts of the city,” he said, “then I have to see to my troops.”

“No,” Azar said. “Tell us where your forces are, and I will send my people to help.”

Chris thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Outside an abandoned truck farm fourteen kilometers east of Niyazov Airport,” he said.

“How soon can you get there?” Azar asked.

“Faster than you,” Chris said.

“Then go — do not worry about us,” Azar said. “We will make contact with our network, then dispatch someone to help.”

“My mission was to be sure you got safely out of the country.”

“Your mission has changed, Master Sergeant,” Azar said. “Go.” Chris needed no more convincing. In the blink of an eye he had leaped into the night sky and was gone from view. “Extraordinary,” Azar said to Najar and Saidi. “Whoever neutralized weapon systems such as that much be extremely powerful.”

“The Pasdaran want you very badly, Shahdokht,” Najar said. “We must get out of this city as quickly as possible.”

“Not before we help the Americans,” Azar said. “Contact the network immediately.”

Azar and her bodyguards took Turabi’s sedan, and they encountered absolutely no difficulties traveling through the city — the vehicle was instantly recognized by the police on patrol, who did nothing more than salute the vehicle as it drove past. Ten minutes later, easily negotiating the nearly deserted streets of Ashkhabad, they came to the Niyazov Thirtieth Anniversary Racetrack on the eastern side of the capital, and made their way to the stables, where they met up with dozens of members of the Qagev monarchy’s underground support network.

“Any news of my parents?” Azar asked.

“None, Shahdokht,” the network leader replied. “Some reports said they were intercepted in Paris by the Pasdaran. We simply do not have any first-hand information.”

“We must proceed on our own, assemble the Court and the war council, organize the militia, and prepare to take action should the opportunity present itself,” Azar said. “But first we have a debt to repay.”

They found the truck farm about ten kilometers east of the racetrack. The entire area was deserted, but it did not take long for Azar and her entourage to notice the smell of burning jet fuel, metal…and human bodies. Their vehicles bumped across craters made by high-explosive detonations, and small fires were still burning everywhere. The underground fighters drew their weapons as they approached the worst of the battle-ravaged area. “No,” Azar ordered, sensing danger nearby. “Lower your weapons. The enemy has already left…or has been dispatched.” She got out of the sedan and approached the center of the devastated truck parking lot. “Master Sergeant? Are you here?”

“Yes,” an electronic voice replied. Chris Wohl emerged from his hiding spot atop a forty-foot trailer and lowered his electromagnetic rail gun. “You came after all.”

“I said I would,” Azar said softly. “I would not abandon you after you rescued us from the Iranians. I have two squads of fighters and transportation with me. What happened here?”

“Turabi told the Iranians where we’d land,” Chris said. “They waited until my advance team left the area, then attacked. They captured one of my commandos and several pieces of our aircraft. My man destroyed several of their vehicles and at least a platoon of Pasdaran, but he’s missing now. The aircraft crew is missing.”

“Shahdokht, inja, inja!” one of the monarchists cried out in a low voice. “Here! Here!” Chris Wohl moved in a flash. The Iranian partisan pulled bits of flaming wreckage and heavily burned and blackened bodies out of a shallow crater beside a concrete pump house, revealing two men lying together, smoke still curling from their bodies. “Baz-mandeh! Nafas-e rahat!”

“A survivor!” Azar said. She dashed over behind the tall figure in gray. It was a young man, holding another young man in a protective embrace. The second man’s body was riddled with bullet holes.

The tall armored commando removed his helmet, revealing a lean, craggy face filled with concern. “Captain! Can you hear me?” Chris asked.

The younger man opened his eyes, blinking away dirt and blood encrusting his vision. The man began to push Chris away in wide-eyed panic, and Azar knelt before him, scooped him up, and held him closely. “It’s okay, Captain, it’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe now.” She looked at Chris. “What’s his name?”

“Hunter,” he replied. “Everyone calls him ‘Boomer.’”

“Boomer. I like that name,” Azar said. She held him tighter until he stopped struggling, then started to probe for wounds. “It’s okay, Boomer. The master sergeant is here. We’re going to take you to safety.”

“Ch-Chris?” Boomer asked. His wits were quickly returning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, sir. Can you tell us what happened?”

“They clobbered us before we could do anything,” Boomer said. “Just when you reported in position at the pickup point, they swooped in. Your guy Sergeant Max — sorry, I don’t know his full name — fought like a berserker, man. He was moving so fast, I thought there was three of him. He shot up most of the attacking vehicles, then started mowing down the ground forces, but…Jesus, there were too many of them.” He looked at his arms and saw the corpse he was still cradling. “Whoever they were, they blasted the Stud apart. I got Wil out in time, but they got him too.”

“Enough, Captain,” Chris said. “You’re safe now.”

“But I think they got the Stud — or whatever they didn’t blow apart…”

“Don’t worry about it, Boomer,” Azar said. “We’ll see to it that your comrade and yourself are safe.”

Boomer looked at the girl holding him. “The princess, I presume?” he asked. “At least your mission was successful, Master Sergeant. I like your accent, Princess. Wisconsin?”

“Minnesota,” Azar said. She motioned to the partisans, who took the dead crewmember from Boomer’s arms. “Can you walk, Boomer?”

“I think so.” He struggled to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, then nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” Azar said. “The Pasdaran will be after us.”

“Where are we going?”

“Iran,” Azar said. “We’ll make contact with our freedom fighters and the Court. Once we’re inside the network again, we’ll get you back to the United States right away.”

“The captain will go back,” Chris Wohl said. “My men and I are staying with you.”

“You don’t need to do that, Master Sergeant…”

“Those are my orders, ma’am,” Chris said. “Until I’m relieved or given further orders, I’m staying with you.”

“You would abandon your superior officer…?”

“He’s a pilot, ma’am,” Chris Wohl said flatly. “He may be a very good pilot, but he’s still just a pilot. My orders did not include baby-sitting the pilot…”

“Jeez, thanks, Master Sergeant,” Boomer moaned.

“…but to accompany you and your men to Iran, collect intelligence data, report back to my headquarters, and await further orders.”

“Your men are injured and captured, Master Sergeant,” Azar said, confused. “Why do you want to stay with me?”

“My commanding officer believes you’re the key to the future of Iran, Princess,” Chris said. “He does not support General Buzhazi’s military insurgency, and he wants more information on you and your monarchist movement. My mission is to give him the information he wants and to stand by with you in case he has further orders.”

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“I’d rather not give you that information, Princess,” Chris said. “He’s a powerful man, but no one else believes that either the military insurgency or an underground monarchy will survive the Pasdaran’s rampages. My mission is to give him the information he needs to convince my government to support you…or not.”

Azar smiled and nodded. “That’s fair, I think,” she said. “My mission is to get us to safety inside Iran, convene the Court and the council of war, assemble the army, and march on to Tehran. Hopefully we can make contact with General Buzhazi and find out what he has in mind. Perhaps our forces can work together…perhaps not. We shall find out together, won’t we?”