Strike Force

CHAPTER 1

“Is this how you usually get into the White House, sir?” Captain Hunter Noble asked as they turned into a guarded underground parking structure a couple blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Only when I’m in a flight suit,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan responded. Both he and Noble still wore the plain black Dreamland-style flight suits they were wearing on their suborbital flight in the XR-A9 spaceplane less than two hours ago. “The boss thought we might attract too much attention going in the main entrance.”

“Doesn’t want to be seen with the line grunts, eh?”

“Doesn’t want to have to explain you, me, and the Stud to the world…yet,” Patrick corrected him. “Believe me, the President is on our side. Once the Stud goes public, I’m sure he’ll want to be the first sitting president to fly in space.”

In the very back part of the parking garage they came upon a nondescript locked steel door with a sign on it that read “DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE.” Patrick opened a hidden panel a few steps away, punched in a code into a keypad, returned to the steel door, and waited. Moments later Boomer heard a buzzing noise, and Patrick pulled the door open. They stepped inside a very small, dark room, and Patrick secured the steel door behind them. A few moments later they heard another buzzing sound, and Patrick pulled another door open. They entered a long, dark, concrete-floored hallway illuminated with bare lightbulbs wired up with surface conduit. Steel and PVC pipes snaked overhead, some leaking. The air was dank and it felt most definitely claustrophobic.

“Ooo. Secret hallway,” Noble murmured. “Very cloak-and-dagger. I suppose there are lots of these hidden hallways around the capital.”

“I suppose. I only know about two of them, and the one between the Pentagon and the White House isn’t that secret.”

“I didn’t know about that one.”

It was a very long walk, during which they passed several cameras in the ceiling. At the end of the seemingly endless hallway there was yet another steel security door. Patrick picked up a telephone on the wall and spoke briefly to someone inside, the door buzzed, and Patrick pulled it open. They entered another small room with a uniformed Secret Service guard sitting behind a thick bulletproof glass. Patrick and Boomer exchanged ID cards for ID necklaces, signed in, and were buzzed inside.

The hallway they entered was just barely nicer than the long tunnel they just crossed — it was carpeted and better lit, but it still had that musty, wet smell and feel to it. “Your usual entrance, sir?” Boomer asked.

“That was one of the Secret Service alternate entryways and emergency exits,” Patrick explained. “They let me use it when I need to. It’s closer to my office.”

They weaved around boxes of files stacked up in the hallway and old copy machines scattered here and there, then went down another flight of stairs to an even dirtier, mustier level. There were even fewer signs of life down here. Boomer had a peek into an open lavatory door, which looked like a fifties-era Army barracks latrine with a concrete floor complete with large drain in the middle, trough urinal, open showers, polished metal mirrors, metal shelves for towels and cleaning supplies, and very dated toilets and sinks, although it was clean enough.

The door they entered was a few down from the latrine, and unlike most of the other ones on this floor it was thick, new-looking, and well-maintained. Inside the feel was actually pretty comfortable — thick light-colored carpeting, plastered sheetrock walls with a few photographs and award plaques on them, a coffee pot and small refrigerator, computers, copy machines, a couple upholstered chairs, a convertible sofa, nice bookshelves, and a small but nice desk. “Nice office, General,” Boomer commented. “After seeing your latrine, I was expecting the modern version of the dungeons in the Tower of London.”

“That’s exactly what it was before I started working on it,” Patrick said. “I’m not much of a handyman, but I think I did okay. They don’t encourage self-help projects in the White House, but I think they took pity on me down here. Make yourself comfortable.” He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Hi, Miss Parks, General McLanahan here…Yes, just got in…Yes, he’s here too…Utilities OK, do you think? That’s all the captain has…OK, we’re on our way.” Boomer had just made his way over to the coffee machine and was just getting out supplies. “Sorry, no time,” he said as he replaced the receiver on its cradle. “We’ll get some coffee upstairs.”

“Upstairs? You mean…?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

“Then I gotta use your facilities first, sir,” Boomer said, and he stepped quickly to use the latrine. His ears were fairly buzzing with excitement, and he found his own plumbing wouldn’t work as advertised, so he gave up, washed up, took a nervous gulp of water (ignoring the old, corroded fixtures), and headed out.

They retraced their steps upstairs, then walked up one more flight of stairs beyond where they entered. The sights, sounds, and smells were noticeably better now. They passed by a dining hall, where Boomer recognized several politicians and senior White House staff members from TV. They ascended one more flight of stairs, had their IDs checked yet again by a plainclothes Secret Service agent, and made their way into a circular outer office with a secretary, pictures of presidents on the walls, a fireplace with a small sitting area with a couch and several chairs before it, and several more chairs arrayed against the walls, most of them occupied. There seemed to be an almost constant parade of persons coming and going down the hallway leading to the Oval Office. “Who are all these people?” Boomer asked.

“Congressmen, senators, aides, staffers, assistants, constituents, reporters…you name it, they flow through this place constantly,” Patrick responded quietly.

“Is it always this…chaotic?”

“Yep. Twenty-four seven. Not only does this place never sleep…it never even rests.”

At that moment Vice President Maureen Hershel emerged from the doorway leading to the Cabinet Room, walking alongside Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner, the former two-term senator from Florida and Secretary of the Navy, was an immensely popular and well-liked politician, widely considered a front-runner in the upcoming presidential elections. Tall, impossibly handsome, and instantly likable, he was one of the most influential and important members of Kevin Martindale’s administration. He whispered something into Maureen Hershel’s ear as they headed out of the Cabinet Room, and it made Patrick feel good to see her smile and laugh. As if sensing Patrick’s presence, she turned, saw him, and gave him a relieved, pleased smile. She nodded at Gardner and let him pass, then gave Attorney General Ken Phoenix a few parting words, clasped him on the shoulder, then motioned to Patrick with two fingers.

Phoenix, a younger-looking clone of President Kevin Martindale with longish dark hair, thin glasses, and piercing dark eyes, shook his head woefully at Patrick as they passed in the hallway. “You should have brought your flying helmet, General,” he whispered to him as he flipped open his cell phone. “You’re going to need it.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, sir,” Patrick said. Patrick motioned for Boomer to follow him.

Maureen Hershel intercepted Patrick in the hall just outside the door to the Cabinet Room. She had always been trim and shapely, but the office had taken a toll on her and made her thin. She kept her brown hair long but tied up in a French braid behind her head, off the collar of her brown business suit, which only served to make her face seem even thinner. Her blue eyes still shined behind her simple rimless glasses, but the worry and edginess of her position had deepened the lines around those beautiful eyes.

“I knew you wouldn’t make it,” she said.

“Sorry.” He reached out with his right hand and touched her left in their little expression of love in that very public of places, but her hand was as cold as stone, as cold as her voice. “Traffic was murder.”

“I don’t think anyone’s in the mood for jokes, Patrick,” she said. She gave Boomer a nod and shook his hand. “You two okay?”

“We’re fine, Miss Vice President,” Noble said.

“Good.” She was all business again. “It’ll be you two meeting with the President, myself, SECDEF, NCA, and CJCS. The press somehow got wind of the spaceplane proposal, and they might have info on the flight you just took.”

“We knew they would, ma’am.”

“Why is that? The project is supposed to be classified.”

“We began daylight ops two weeks ago, Miss Vice President,” Patrick said. She noticed Maureen’s eyes narrow a bit when Patrick addressed her formally — she knew it was only proper, but she felt isolated and detached from him whenever he did it. “I warned everyone it was going to be just a matter of time before it was all over the press. We saw the first ‘LakeSpotter’ reports four days later on the Internet…”

“We were notified that the report was coming out in tomorrow’s paper just this morning,” Maureen said. “No requests, no opportunity to squash it — just notification. Everyone’s pissed.”

“It’s no secret who wants what, Miss Vice President,” Patrick said. “Congress has made that quite clear. Everyone has got their own ideas, and none of them include the Stud.”

“You’re still going with your original recommendations, Patrick?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maureen’s lips went hard and straight with concern, but she nodded. Miss Parks, the Oval Office assistant, approached and informed her that the meeting had been moved to the Oval Office and the President was waiting. “Okay. Ready?”

“Ready.” He tried to reach out again to her, but she had already spun on her heel and headed toward the door to the Oval Office. He swallowed his feeling of dejection, then turned to Hunter. “Ready to do it, Boomer?” Patrick whispered.

“Do I have time to change my shorts first, sir?” Noble asked.

“Negative. Follow me.”

Maureen peeked through the peephole in the door, saw nothing out of the ordinary, knocked lightly, then thrust open the door, and before Boomer knew it they were inside. Like much of the rest of the place he had seen, the Oval Office was not the largest or most ornate office he had ever been in — in fact, it was pretty plain. Boomer expected that, but what he was waiting for was the experience of feeling the aura of power that was supposed to emanate from this historic room. This was the place, he knew, where hundreds of decisions a day were made affecting the lives of billions of people all over the world, where the word of a single man could commit the resources of the most powerful nation ever to inhabit the planet to a goal.

But he didn’t sense that either. This was a workaday office — he felt nothing more. No sooner had they walked into the room than the outer office assistant came in and handed papers to the Secretary of Defense, Joseph Gardner, and hustled out, only to be followed by someone else a few moments later. There was no sense of anticipation, no excitement, no…nothing, really, except for a sense of business, perhaps with a slight undercurrent of uncertainty and urgency.

The one thing he did notice was the large rug in the middle of the room with the presidential seal on it. Boomer knew that before World War Two the eagle’s head had been turned toward the thirteen arrows it was clutching in its talons; after World War Two, President Harry Truman redesigned the seal so that the eagle’s head was turned toward the olive branches, signifying a desire and emphasis for peace. But after the attacks on the United States, President Martindale ordered the eagle’s head on the seal turned back toward the arrows, signifying America’s de facto perpetual readiness for war.

Boomer wasn’t sure if he agreed with that sentiment or not, but clearly the President did, and it hung heavy like a fog in the famous historic room.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General William Glenbrook, looked as if he was going to get to his feet when Maureen Hershel stepped into the room, but he kept his seat. Apparently there was some informal but clearly understood rule that no one rose for the Vice President entering any executive office unless she was the senior official present or unless the President did, and he was too distracted by his chief of staff, former U.S. House of Representatives Majority Leader Carl Minden, to notice. Minden himself noticed, but he only scowled and turned back to whatever he was showing the President. Finally the President impatiently looked up from his desk, wondering when his next meeting was going to start and finding the participants waiting on him.

Kevin Martindale was a long-time fixture on Capitol Hill and the White House. A former Congressman and former two-term vice president, he served one term as president before being defeated by the ultra-isolationist Jeffersonian Party candidate Thomas Thorn. He had been gearing up for another run at the presidency when the Russian Air Force attacked the United States. Amidst Thorn’s decision not to seek a second term and with only twenty percent voter turnout, Martindale and Hershel — the only candidates to run for the White House that year — were elected. “Well well, the rocket boys,” he said jovially. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Patrick responded. “Nice to be home.” Per protocol, he waited in place quietly until told where to go.

The President finished what he was doing then got up, stepped toward them, and shook hands with Patrick. Martindale was thin and rakishly handsome, a little more than average height, with dark secretive eyebrows, small dark eyes, and longish salt-and-pepper hair parted in the middle. He was famous for the “photographer’s dream”—two curls of silver hair that appeared on his forehead without any manual manipulation whenever he was peeved or animated. While out of office Martindale had grown a beard which had made him look rather sinister; he had shaved the beard after the American Holocaust, but kept the long hair, so now he just looked roguish. “I hope you know,” he said quietly into Patrick’s ear, not yet releasing his handshake and keeping Patrick close to him, “we created quite a ruckus out there, Patrick.”

“I was hoping so, sir,” Patrick responded.

“Me too,” the President said. “Did you get it?”

“You bet we did, sir,” Patrick replied. “Direct hit.”

“Good job,” the President said. “No radiation detected?”

“They’d be crazy to put real nuclear warheads on that test shot, sir.”

“But you checked anyway…?”

“Of course, sir. No radiation detected.”

“Great.” He shook his head with a smile. “Did the bastards really think we were going to allow them to base a nuclear-capable medium-range missile within striking distance of Diego Garcia, one of our most vital air bases in Asia?”

“Apparently so, sir,” Patrick said. “But we only took out one of those Shahab-5s — they’ve got possibly a half-dozen more ready to fly. And we know they still have as many as three or four nuclear warheads, plus any number of chemical, biological, or high explosive warheads deliverable by the Shahab-5s.”

“This one was a warning,” the President said with a smile. “We’ll keep an eye on the others and take them out if we need to.”

“Faster than you can imagine, sir.”

“Outstanding.” His voice turned serious, and the “photographer’s dream” devil’s locks slowly appeared as he went on: “I should have guessed you were going to fly the thing, but I sure as hell didn’t know you were going to go into orbit. That was unwise and unauthorized. What made you think you could do that without permission, Patrick? You work for me. I make the calls.”

“Sir, you know me,” Patrick said. “As long as I’ve been in uniform I have flown the first operational test flight of every manned aerospace vehicle coming out of the ‘Lake’ for the past twelve years. This one was no different just because we went into space.”

“Next time, mister, you tell me when you plan on flying anything, and I don’t care how high or how fast it goes,” the President hissed angrily into Patrick’s ear. “This is no longer about you and how you do things. You are special adviser to the president of the United States, in uniform or out, on the ground or in orbit. I don’t like surprises. Am I making myself fucking clear to you, General?”

Patrick was a little taken aback by the President’s admonition — he looked carefully for even the faintest glint of humor or forgiveness and, finding none, was ashamed for even looking. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He stepped back, smiled, shook Patrick’s hand warmly and firmly, and, so everyone could hear, said, “Job well done, General. Job well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” When the President looked at Boomer, Patrick continued, “Sir, may I present my mission commander and designer of the rocket engines on the Black Stallion spaceplane, Captain Hunter Noble, U.S. Air Force, call-sign ‘Boomer.’”

“Captain Noble, a pleasure to meet a real rocket scientist,” the President said. Boomer was about half a head taller than the President, but he didn’t notice that because suddenly he found it very difficult to speak or even think: he was shaking hands with the President of the United States! Now the full force of where he was hit him, and it came much more suddenly than he ever believed possible. He felt Patrick steering him to his right and someone said something about getting his picture taken by the official White House photographer, but he felt as sluggish, as if he was standing in quicksand. “‘Boomer,’ huh?” the President asked as the photographer worked. “Where did that call-sign come from — making sonic booms all the time?”

Patrick waited a few breaths to see if Hunter would answer; when he found he was still too starstruck to do so, he chimed in, “It does now, sir. But when Captain Noble started at Dreamland, most of his designs went ‘boom’ on the test stands with frightening regularity. Fortunately for us, he perfected his designs, and now he’s created the fastest, most efficient, and most reliable manned spacecraft in existence.”

“Excellent. That’s what we’re here to talk about. Take seats.” Patrick steered Boomer to the proffered chairs. The President was pointing to the others in the Oval Office as Patrick led him to his seat. “Boomer, I know you’ve met the Vice President; let me introduce Dr. Carson, secretary of state; Mr. Gardner, secretary of defense; General Glenbrook, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and General Sparks, my national security adviser.” Both remained standing as they were introduced to the others in the room and shook hands, then took seats after the President took his seat at the head of the meeting area. “First off, General McLanahan, I want to know about the flight.”

“I’ll let my mission commander describe it for you, sir, if I could.”

“‘Mission commander?’” General Sparks commented. “Isn’t that the new Air Force term for ‘copilot?’”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “I flew the spacecraft this morning.”

“You?”

“I may not wear pilot’s wings, sir, but I fly every aircraft that goes through the ‘Lake,’” Patrick said.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is,” Patrick said, meeting Sparks’s questioning glare with a confident one of his own, then turned to Boomer. “Captain? Tell us about the flight.” They could all see Boomer’s face turn several shades of red and his mouth open. Patrick decided he was going to give him just one more chance: “Boomer, fill us in.”

“Uh…it was…well, it was pretty routine, actually…”

“‘Routine?’” Vice President Hershel remarked, trying to help the young Air Force officer out of his funk. “Boomer, less than three hours ago you were standing on a dry lake bed in southern Nevada — now, you’re sitting in the Oval Office. In between you orbited the Earth! What’s routine about that?”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute — you say you went into orbit?” Sparks interjected, his eyes wide in surprise. “I didn’t know about this! Why wasn’t I briefed?”

“I knew the XR-A9 had the capability, sir,” Patrick said. “I decided to try it out.”

“You flew that experimental and still-classified spaceplane into orbit without permission, General?” Sparks thundered. “You ‘decided’ on your own to do it? You’re not even a pilot! Do you think that it is your own personal property, your own private conveyance? If so, you are sadly mistaken.”

“It’s okay, Jonas — this time,” the President said. “I didn’t authorize General McLanahan to go into orbit either, but I didn’t prohibit it either. What I asked for was a demonstration of the spaceplane’s capabilities, and I believe I got one.”

“I see,” Sparks said. “Thank you for the clarification, sir.” He turned to Patrick and added, “I’ve heard this about you for many years, General — now I see why.”

“What would that be, sir?” Patrick asked.

“Your proclivity to authorize yourself to take action; your willingness to take unnecessary and in many cases dangerous risks; your horse-blinder view of the world. Do you need me to go further, General?”

“I didn’t know you took such an interest in my career, sir,” Patrick said wryly. “I’m flattered.” Sparks gave him a look like a snake that was busy digesting a mouse, but said nothing.

“It’s still pretty incredible,” General Glenbrook commented, suppressing a grin at the quiet interchange taking place before them. “Climb into a jet, take off, and shoot yourself into orbit minutes later? Impressive.”

“I’ll say,” Maureen added. “And can it be done again?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Boomer said, finally relaxing a bit. “We’re parked over at Patuxent River now — we can gas up, do a flight plan, and be in space in about an hour.”

“No launch pad, no space suits, no massive boosters — none of that stuff?” the national security adviser asked, his voice skeptical.

That was just the right level of technical questioning and curious disbelief Boomer needed to ignite his brain. “That stuff is unnecessary and outdated technology,” he said. “We had to change our way of thinking about space flight first, and then we built the equipment to do the job.”

“What do you mean, Captain?”

“Government and military space was always predicated on lifting large payloads — big multi-function satellites mostly — into high orbits,” Boomer said. “Those payloads are very versatile and can stay in service for years, even decades, but are expensive, difficult, and take time to put into orbit. With the invention of small single-purpose satellites designed to be used for short periods of time — weeks or a month or two at the most — we don’t need a big expensive launch system to get them up. Black Stallion is designed to place small payloads into low Earth orbit quickly and efficiently.”

“Can’t we already do that, Captain?” Sparks asked, emphasizing the word “captain” to give Noble one more chance to remember who he was talking to.

“Yes, we can,” Boomer replied. “But Black Stallion can do it faster, better, and cheaper, and it’s more versatile.”

“How so?”

“The Stud — er, the Black Stallion — can not only insert payloads into orbit, but can also fly passengers anywhere on the planet in just a few hours,” Boomer said. “None of the other quick-launch systems, like Pegasus or Taurus, can fly passengers. Our other advantage is sustainability and quick-reaction capability: we can launch payloads into orbit once per day in normal use or twice per day in dedicated surge mode, where other so-called ‘quick launch vehicles’ could take weeks or months to prepare.”

“But how do you get that kind of power and thrust?” General Glenbrook asked. “The Space Shuttle orbiter needs two immense solid rocket boosters and a huge fuel tank to reach orbit, and then it has to glide back for a landing.”

“Because the empty weight of the orbiter is about three times heavier than the Black Stallion, sir,” Boomer replied. “It carries ten times the payload and four times as many crewmembers. The Stud is designed to get into orbit quickly from almost any military base in the world and carry small payloads. The Stud can’t replace expendable launch vehicles and the Shuttle, but it can do things that the others can’t.”

“The other difference is the ‘leopards’ engines Captain Noble developed, sir,” Patrick added. “The engines are very high-tech and at the same time remarkably simple, using upgraded designs first drawn up almost fifty years ago. The engines are hybrid jet-rocket engines that burn jet fuel and a hydrogen peroxide compound oxidizer…”

“Hydrogen peroxide? You mean, the stuff you use to clean wounds with?”

“The same, only highly purified and combined with compounds such as boron to increase the specific impulse,” Boomer explained. “But we can do it with regular hydrogen peroxide also. Outside of the atmosphere, the fuel and oxidizer are burned in a combustion chamber that uses laser pulses for ignition and to superheat the gases, which also increases thrust. In the atmosphere, the engines switch back to regular turbofan engines and it flies like a conventional jet fighter.”

“What’s wrong with what we have now, Captain?” Sparks asked. “We have the most reliable launch systems and satellites in the world. Our satellites are designed to stay in space three times longer than the Russians’, and they often stay up three times longer than planned.”

“All that’s okay — for the older generation,” Boomer said. Sparks ruffled again but tried not to let it show. “Today and for the near future, that system is slow, inefficient, costly, and not flexible enough for current-day missions.” Patrick tried not to grimace as he listened to the test pilot not only interrupt a superior officer and throw a challenging remark at the national security adviser, but forget to call him “sir” when addressing him. “We should scrap it and build a brand-new system.”

“Your system, I assume, eh, Captain?” Sparks asked. “We replace satellites that stay in orbit for ten years for satellites that stay in orbit for ten weeks, max? Scrap a shuttle program that can carry sixty thousand pounds into orbit and back again for a system that can carry six thousand?”

“We build a system that can do the jobs the military needs done today, not forty years ago.” Still no “sir,” Patrick noticed, and Sparks was getting pissed.

“You’ve been in the Air Force for how long, Captain? Six years?”

“Five.”

“Five years. And you think you have all the answers, Captain?” Boomer finally, finally realized who he was talking to, and he wisely just shook his head. “Well, Captain?”

“N-no. Sir,” Boomer stammered.

“I don’t think so either, Captain Noble,” Sparks said, “but thank you for your input anyway. I’m sure we’ll give it all due regard.”

“You made your point, General Sparks,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman William Glenbrook said, not raising his eyes to directly challenge Sparks, but not backing down either. To Boomer, he asked, “What’s your max payload, Captain?”

“Depends on the orbit, sir,” Boomer replied. “I believe we can shoot five hundred pounds to the moon.” That got a lot of folks’ attention in the Oval Office. “We can put a four-thousand-pound bunker-buster bomb down on a bad guy’s head anywhere on the planet in about ninety minutes.”

“A more typical attack payload, sir,” Patrick interjected, “would be a spread of three precision-guided supersonic attack missiles, or sixteen two-hundred-and-fifty-pound small-diameter precision-guided bombs. Launched from over the U.S., the bombs could hit sixteen individual targets anywhere on the planet within hours. But Captain Noble is correct: with a small payload and a booster section similar to the Air Force’s Payload Assist Module, we can push a small satellite out beyond Earth orbit into space. A moon shot is certainly not out of the question.”

“The stealth bomber can attack over sixty targets with the SDB, General,” Sparks pointed out.

“Yes, sir, but the stealth bomber needs time and tanker support to fly to the target area,” Patrick said. “If both planes were loaded and sitting alert and were ordered to launch and attack a target three thousand miles away — say, Diego Garcia to Tehran, Iran — a stealth bomber would take six hours and a minimum of two refuelings to do the job; a B-1 bomber could do it in five hours. The Black Stallion can do it in less than two hours, and do it with approximately the same cost. By the time the bombers arrive over the target area, the Black Stallion can land, reload, refuel, and fire another salvo.”

“That’s still a lot fewer targets attacked in the same amount of time.”

“Yes, sir, but the Black Stallion did the job without putting any personnel or hardware over enemy territory, and without the need for any overseas bases,” Patrick pointed out. “Plus the Black Stallion has the advantage of speed and reaction time: if satellite imagery, human intelligence, or unmanned reconnaissance picks up an enemy presence, we can respond quickly.”

“And the bad guys won’t see us coming,” Boomer added.

“The whole world saw you coming today, Captain,” Secretary of State Mary Carson said perturbedly. Carson was in her early fifties, tall, slender, and very serious-looking, with a clipped pattern of speech that made it sound as if she was snapping at anyone she spoke to. “The Russians inquired about our unannounced launch activities minutes after you fired the rockets to boost yourself into space, suggesting that some believed it was an intercontinental missile attack; and they inquired about the payload shortly after you released it. Several of our European allies also queried us about the flight. It was no secret to anyone.”

“Then another part of our mission was a success,” Patrick said.

“What part is that, General — spooking half the world?” Carson asked. “Demonstrating our intent to conduct our own ‘bolt-from-the-blue’ aerial bombardment attacks, like Russia did? Is that the message you’re trying to send here?”

“Madame Secretary, we have no conventional strategic long-range strike forces except for a handful of bombers,” Patrick explained. “Our ability to project power abroad is limited to the ten existing carrier battle groups and deployed tactical air power. Even if every group is put to sea and every Air Force and Marine fighter wing is deployed to forward operating bases, it still leaves most of the planet unreachable by American military air power simply because smaller aircraft have less range and need more support to operate far from home or friendly bases. If we show the world that we can successfully launch a viable quick-reaction single-stage-to-orbit aircraft, the world will be caught off-guard, and our enemies will be scrambling to catch up. That gives us much-needed breathing space to decide which direction we want to proceed.”

“I don’t like playing those kinds of games, General,” Carson said. “This gives the State Department nothing to work with. It’s brinksmanship.” She turned to the Secretary of Defense, Joseph Gardner. “Do we even need long-range bombers any more, Joe? Everyone keeps on saying that the bombers are outdated — why spend billions on outdated technology?”

“General McLanahan has stated the situation accurately, Mary,” Gardner replied. “We need a long-range quick-reaction nonnuclear strike force to fill the gap between tactical ship- and land-based air forces and nuclear missiles, able to respond to a severe crisis anywhere in the world in a very short period of time with sustained and devastating firepower. With the Russians still a threat and China growing stronger every year, that mission hasn’t changed.” He turned to Patrick and added, “But frankly we’re very disappointed in General McLanahan’s recommendations. With the kind of money we’re talking about, we can triple the size of the previous B-2 stealth bomber fleet, procure all of the latest state-of-the-art precision-guided weapons we’d need for the next ten years, and still have money left over for other needs.”

“The ‘Barbeau Formula,’” Vice President Hershel interjected.

“It’s a good plan, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said. “Two wings with twenty B-2 stealth bombers each, fitted with the latest technology and armed with the latest standoff precision-guided munitions. They are still unmatched for performance and striking capability over any heavily defended target complex on Earth. The Navy takes care of maritime, littoral, medium-range strike missions, nuclear strike, and space; the Air Force takes care of tankers, transports, long-range conventional strike, and air superiority.” Again, he turned sullenly to Patrick and added, “With General McLanahan’s background, the Pentagon assumed he’d agree with this strategy. I’m somewhat perplexed by his current stance.”

“Sir, I don’t have a ‘stance’ here,” Patrick said. “My directive was to evaluate several different proposals to replace the strategic conventional strike forces destroyed by the Russians. That’s what I’m doing.”

“But you came to this meeting riding in one of those ‘proposals,’ General,” Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman Glenbrook pointed out with a wry smile. “You didn’t come here on a B-2 stealth bomber. That sounds like an endorsement to me.”

“It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, sir, that’s all,” Patrick said. “Besides, I’ve already got plenty of hours in the B-2.”

Glenbrook’s conciliatory nod was almost a bow — he was very familiar with Patrick McLanahan’s record, including his combat record. McLanahan had not just helped design and test aerospace weapon systems, but he was often chosen — or volunteered — to take his ultra high-tech war machines into battle. Many conflicts around the world over the past eighteen years had been prevented from escalating into a major war because of McLanahan’s skill, bravery, and outright audacity. He had a very long list of awards and decorations, most of which he was not allowed to wear on his uniform or ever have revealed to anyone until after his death: some would never be revealed for a generation.

“I think it was a dangerous and foolish stunt, General,” National Security Adviser Sparks said hotly. “You exposed yourself to unnecessary danger just for a thrill ride.”

“Sir, men and women from the ‘Lake’ expose themselves to the same dangers every day,” Patrick said. “I wouldn’t characterize it as ‘unnecessary.’”

“It is if a middle-aged White House staffer does it,” Sparks said.

“May I suggest we get back to the subject at hand, gents?” Maureen Hershel interjected. She had to stifle a smile at Patrick’s expense at the “middle-aged White House staffer” comment. “Congress is bugging the White House for a recommendation the President will support for the new long-range strike force. If we don’t recommend something soon, we’ll risk losing part of the appropriation.”

“I take it,” the President said, “that we have no consensus here on which direction we should proceed?” His comment was met by uncomfortable silence, so he rose, poured himself another cup of coffee, and sat down. “All right, let’s talk about the Black Stallion track once again.” After he had settled into his chair at the head of the informal meeting area, he asked, “So, Patrick, tell me what it was like to go into space.”

“In a word, sir — incredible,” Patrick replied with a smile. “I still can’t believe what we did this morning: one orbit around the Earth and landing at an air base all the way across the country in about two hours.”

“And we can fuel up the Stud and do it again, right now,” Boomer added excitedly. “Patuxent River or Andrews Air Force Base both has everything we need to blast off again.”

“Could I fly in it?” the President asked. Boomer chuckled. “What’s so funny, Captain? Don’t think I can handle it?”

“No…no, sir, it’s not that,” Boomer said, the smile disappearing from his face as he realized he might have unwittingly offended the President of the United States of America. “General McLanahan said you’d want to fly in it.”

“He’s right — he knows me too well,” the President said. “The general and I go way back — I knew him when he was a young, cocky, know-it-all captain like yourself. So what sort of training would I need to fly your spaceplane, Captain?”

“Training? No training, sir,” Boomer responded. “You look like you’re in good shape — I think you’d do fine. Let’s go. We’ll gas up the Stud, hop in, and in three hours we’ll be on the beach in Australia.”

“Fly right now? No one can get ready to fly into space that fast!” Sparks said perturbedly. “NASA astronauts train for years to get to fly into space!”

“That’s NASA’s way of doing things, sir,” Boomer said. “In the Stud, passengers are just passengers. We’re not interested in turning anyone into Buzz Aldrin or Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise—we just want to make sure you don’t flip the wrong switch at the wrong time. Let’s go.”

“The crewmembers spend considerably more time training, sir,” Patrick quickly pointed out, “but Captain Noble is perfectly correct: we don’t require anything from passengers except to be in good health — if you suffered some sort of injury or difficulty you’d have to hang on without any possibility of assistance for an hour or two, possibly longer, since the front-seat crewmember can’t get to you.” It was obvious that President Martindale’s head was churning — he wore a mischievous grin, as if running through his datebook and trying to figure out if he could spare the time. Patrick was sure he was going to agree. “Sir?” he asked. “Would you like to go for it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, General,” Sparks said. “The President is certainly not going to…”

“Carl, call Bethesda,” the President said to his chief of staff. “Ask the doc to come see me.”

“Mr. President!” Vice President Hershel exclaimed. “Are you really going to do it?”

“Why the hell not?” Martindale asked. “I was given a clean bill of health from the doc just a couple months ago, and that was the straight story, not just a blurb for the media. I’ve piloted a B-1 Lancer and a B-2 stealth bomber, landed a Hornet onto an aircraft carrier, drove a tank, and been in a submarine down to twelve hundred feet — all while I’ve been president or vice president. And no offense, McLanahan, but if you can do it, I can do it.”

“No doubt, sir. No offense taken.”

“We have meetings all day, Mr. President, and then we have the reception for the Turkish prime minister tonight, and that is a function we can’t postpone,” the President’s chief of staff Carl Minden said. “If you’re really thinking about doing this, let me discuss it confidentially with the White House counsel, the Cabinet, and the Leadership. They all have a stake in what happens if you didn’t come back.”

“He’ll come back — faster than you can imagine,” Boomer interjected.

“Riding in the spaceplane would be seen as an endorsement of the program,” Sparks said, “and I don’t think that’s what you want just yet.”

“All right, all right, I get the message,” the President said. “Carl, I still want to meet with the doc as soon as the schedule permits. And go ahead and put out the feelers to the usual players about this. And I want serious comments, not horrified reactions.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Minden shook his head, already dreading the calls he had to make. “You realize, sir, that the press and the opposition will have a field day with this — they’ll call it an election-year stunt, an abuse of privilege…”

“An old Navy destroyer captain once told me that every month he went down to the turrets and fired the big guns, took a patrol shift in his helicopters, took the helm of his ship, and even spent a couple hours in the ship’s laundry and galleys,” the President said. “Being the commander-in-chief means more to me than flying in Air Force One — it means getting out in the field and experiencing the life your soldiers live every day in uniform. I will do it, and I don’t care what the opposition says.”

“If they had the office and the guts, they’d do it too,” Boomer chimed in.

Both Sparks and Minden gave Boomer warning glares, silently ordering him not to speak unless spoken to, but the President nodded. “Well said, Captain,” he said. “Someone’s got to be the first sitting president to fly in space or orbit the earth — I’m determined that I’m going to be the one. But Mr. Minden is right: business before pleasure, I guess.” He turned to Patrick. “Let’s hear it, Patrick. I nominated you four years ago to draw the new long-range strike blueprint to replace the aircraft and missiles destroyed by Gryzlov. What do you recommend I do about the bomber force?”

“Sir, I feel the decision isn’t just about the long-range bomber force but the entire future of the air force — even the future of the U.S. military,” Patrick said. “I strongly believe we’re on the threshold of changing the entire force in preparation for the future, and we shouldn’t shy away from it.”

“And what future might that be, General?” Sparks asked skeptically.

“Space,” Patrick replied simply. “The technologies demonstrated in weapon systems like the XR-9A Black Stallion spaceplane are clear indicators that the future of the U.S. Air Force and possibly the entire U.S. military rests in space. The Black Stallion today demonstrated the ability to carry out and improve upon two core centers of gravity of the Air Force and indeed of the entire U.S. military: rapid airlift and rapid long-range strike.”

“You were late to the meeting today, Patrick,” Maureen pointed out with a smile.

“It took longer for our helicopter to fly the sixty miles from Patuxent River to Andrews than it did to fly the Black Stallion from Nevada to Maryland, Miss Vice President,” Patrick replied with a smile of his own. “Instead of boosting up to three hundred thousand feet to launch the Meteor payload, we could have flown a straight-line trajectory and shaved sixty minutes off the flight time.”

“Or instead of a Meteor orbital payload,” Noble interjected, “we’ve developed a pressurized cabin module with seats and luggage space. We can fly eight passengers from Washington to Tokyo in less than an hour and a half, and they don’t need to wear space suits.”

“Damn,” the President muttered. “Now I know I want to ride in that thing.”

“Mr. President, I believe orbital and suborbital travel will soon become as commonplace as transcontinental commercial airline travel is now,” Patrick said. “In less than five years I believe we can stand up a wing of twenty spaceplanes and dedicated refueling tankers, plus the necessary hardware to allow us to deliver a wide variety of ordnance, satellites, and even people anywhere around the globe within hours. The array of payloads we can lift right now is small, but within those five years I believe the range of payloads will jump exponentially as manufacturers start building more microsatellites compatible with the Black Stallion.”

“Based at Battle Mountain or Elliott air bases, I assume,” Secretary of Defense Gardner interjected.

“The beauty of the Black Stallion launch system is that we can launch from almost any runway, sir — if it can handle a big fighter jet like the F-15 Eagle or F/A-22 Raptor, it can launch a Stud,” Boomer said. “Vandenberg and Cape Canaveral are good for large rocket launches not only because it’s more efficient to launch polar and equatorial flights from those bases, but the various stages fall safely into open ocean. We don’t drop anything. If the folks down below don’t mind a distant sonic boom, a Stud can go into orbit from anywhere.”

“That nickname is starting to get on my nerves,” Sparks commented under his breath.

“General Glenbrook, would the spaceplanes fill the requirements we’ve established for long-range strike?” Vice President Hershel asked.

The Joint Chiefs chairman nodded noncommittally. “It certainly is an impressive system,” he said. “As the Pentagon sees it, the Black Stallion is in the same class as a fighter or light bomber but with almost twenty times the speed and range of present aircraft. Its performance envelope gives it capabilities that very few bombers have — namely, the ability to put small payloads — or itself — into Earth orbit in a very short period of time. It has the huge advantage of hypersonic speed, suborbital flight, and payload delivery throughout its flight envelope.”

“What are the negatives?”

“Well, we can always use more payload — six thousand pounds max is very small for today’s weapons,” Glenbrook said, “although with advances in weapon and satellite technology, soon we should be able to do the same mission with smaller payloads. The biggest negatives are that we have no idea what sort of tactics and procedures we’d need to match the system with the mission. Normally we never change the mission to adapt to the weapon system; we don’t field a weapon, then change procedures and tactical doctrine to match the weapon. It looks like we’re being forced to do exactly that. With the stealth bombers and sea-based systems, we have well-developed doctrine in place suitable for a large array of contingencies.”

“Doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement, General.”

“It’s not, sir,” Glenbrook admitted, “but only because I don’t know that much about it. Quite frankly, I think it’s too advanced. But after reading the reports from General McLanahan, Captain Noble, and their team for the past year during advanced development, I think the system is worth serious consideration. But I’m not yet ready to endorse it, or fly in it…and I don’t think you should either, sir. We test aircraft and weapon systems every day — the President of the United States has no business riding in any of them before they’re made fully operational.”

“Hear, hear,” Sparks said under his breath.

“I get the message, General,” the President said a bit perturbedly. The outer office secretary entered and handed the President a note. His face adopted a half-excited, half-amused expression. “Well, well, it seems this meeting has been leaked to Congress already,” he said. “Senator Barbeau is here and wishes to speak with me”—he turned to Patrick and added—“and General McLanahan.”

Maureen Hershel couldn’t help noticing General Glenbrook, Chief of Staff Minden, and Secretary Gardner straightening up in their seats and adjusting ties, and even the President wore a rather goofy school-boy-in-love expression. But National Security Adviser Sparks was anything but anticipatory: “Damn the information leaks in this town,” he muttered. “If I ever catch who it is, I’ll roast his balls on my radiator.”

“Mr. President, do you want to do a meeting like this?” Minden asked. “She doesn’t have an appointment, and it’s improper etiquette for a member of Congress to just show up at the White House unannounced — the Senate would squawk if you just showed up on Capitol Hill like this, without notifying the leadership. Besides, if you allow one to do it, they’ll all want the privilege.”

“I’m not one to stand on formality, Carl,” the President said. “Miss Parks, ask the senator to come in.” The outer office secretary had barely left the room before a red-haired whirlwind whizzed past her, and the men in the room were scrambling like startled chickens to get to their feet.

Boomer had seen Stacy Anne Barbeau on TV, of course, but she looked even more striking in person. He noted she was not the tallest woman he had ever met, nor the thinnest or most curvaceous. But whatever it was, Stacy Anne Barbeau had it. He couldn’t tell if it was the round green eyes, the flowing curly red hair, the lush red lips, the killer body, or the attitude of supreme confidence and control she exuded — perhaps all of the above — but she made an entrance all right, like a famous actress exiting her limo and walking down the red carpet in front of thousands of adoring fans. She created a presence, a force that drove almost everyone before her — mostly the men, even the very powerful ones in this very powerful office — to their hormonal knees.

“Mr. President, how good of you to see me,” Barbeau said in a rather loud but at the same time sweet Southern voice — sweet like indulgent champagne, not sugar, was the thought that entered Boomer’s head. She strode quickly over to him. “You are looking mighty fine, Mr. President, the best I’ve ever seen you. You wear the mantle well, I must say.”

“Senator Barbeau, this is an unexpected surprise,” the President said. He was a head taller than she and eight years older, and Boomer had to admit they made a fine-looking couple — or maybe he had already heard that in any number of celebrity gossip magazines that continuously postulated on the bachelor President’s love life. Boomer noticed the sudden presence of the President’s famous “photographer’s dream,” the two locks of thick curly silver hair that automatically tumbled over his forehead, one above each eye, whenever the President became agitated — obviously they also appeared when he was aroused too. “Welcome back to the White House. Let me introduce you to some folks you probably haven’t met.”

She interlocked her left arm with the President’s right, snuggling the side of her left breast seductively to him, then turned toward the others in the office and flashed her most brilliant smile, nodding collectively to the others as she greeted them. She gave Boomer a quick appraisal from head to toe, then a hungry look, a mischievous smile, and an appreciative nod after apparently liking very much what she saw. The President stepped over to Patrick. “Senator, allow me to introduce…”

“Lieutenant-General Patrick Shane McLanahan needs no introduction, Mr. President, none what-so-ev-er,” Barbeau interrupted. She unwrapped herself from the President’s right arm, went over to Patrick, and extended her hand. “An honor to meet you, General,” she cooed, locking her green eyes on his. She reached out with her left hand, placed it on the back of his neck, drew him closer, and kissed him lightly on both cheeks. “A true American hero. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. A real pleasure.”

It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room as the other men looked on, wishing they were getting some of that preferential treatment from the Southern belle — and what little air was left was being ignited by Maureen Hershel’s fiery stare at Barbeau. She quashed it right away and impatiently checked her watch.

“Nice to meet you, Senator,” Patrick said finally.

“Thank you, General,” she said, her voice still low and…husky, Boomer thought. Barbeau ran her left hand down Patrick’s shoulder, and her eyes widened a bit as she gently ran her fingers over his shoulders and arms. “You’re pretty tense, General.” She paused, then looked at him with that mischievous smile and added, “Or is that all you?”

“I’m afraid it’s all me, ma’am.”

“Well, you must get out of the weight room more often and visit me on Capitol Hill, General,” she cooed. She glanced over at Hershel, noticed her impatient expression, hid a smile, and added, “And maybe take a bath before you do, if I may be so bold, Patrick — may I call you Patrick?” She didn’t wait for a response. She turned and shook hands with Boomer. “Captain Noble, a pleasure.” She slid closer to him, placed her cheek against his, then gave him a kiss on the cheek as well. “Mmm, nice,” she whispered to him.

“That goes double from where I’m standing, Senator,” Boomer whispered back.

Barbeau stepped back, affixing Noble with a mind-blowing smile and a wink, then turned to the others in the Oval Office. “Good Lord, Mr. President, these men smell as if you have sentenced them to hard labor,” she said gaily, waving a hand under her nose and batting her eyes in her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Do you normally allow airmen to come into the White House in flight suits, smelling like they just walked in from a thirty-six-hour mission?”

“Now you leave those boys alone and stop making fun of them, Senator — recruiting is bad enough these days without a senior senator chasing the good ones away,” the President said. Was it her imagination, Maureen asked herself, or was the President adopting a Southern accent all of a sudden? “Sit down, and tell me what I can do for you.”

“With your permission, sir, we’ll return to duty,” Patrick said.

Chief of Staff Carl Minden nodded and started to herd the two toward the door, but Barbeau said anxiously, “No, General, Captain, please stay. Mr. President?”

“You’re the one who said they stink, Stacy,” the President quipped.

“Looks like a serious political discussion gearing up here,” Boomer said. “Way above my pay grade, I’m sure.”

Barbeau flashed her bright green eyes at Boomer and gave him a smile that could have been either amused or devilishly angry. “You are a deliciously plain-spoken young man, Boomer. Mr. President, I’m madly in love with both of them. You must order them to stay.”

“We’ve got a full schedule this morning, Senator,” the President warned, then nodded for Patrick and Boomer to remain. The chief of staff’s mouth hardened in exasperation, but said nothing.

“I am so sorry to impose myself on you, Mr. President,” Barbeau said as she took a seat at the end of the sofa opposite Maureen — that way she could keep an eye on everyone in the room while she spoke to the President, and she could also see whoever came into the Oval Office and even see anyone in the corridor outside when the door was opened. “But as you know, my committee will begin hearings on the new defense appropriation bill in a couple weeks, and I wanted to personally ask if there was anything at all I could do for you or Secretary Gardner to assist you in preparing your proposals for my committee?”

“Secretary Gardner sent the committee a letter stating our timetable for making our recommendations, Senator,” Chief of Staff Carl Minden said. “We won’t be late, I assure you.” Boomer noticed that the chief of staff stayed on his feet during this meeting, standing opposite the President instead of on his left side as he had always seen him in photographs, almost outside the informal meeting area. It appeared as if Minden had situated himself so Barbeau would have to turn her head all the way to her right to speak to him. Do they sit around all day thinking of ways to gain every bit of advantage over a political adversary, even in the Oval Office? Boomer wondered.

“Your entire staff is the hardest-working and most dedicated in recent memory, Mr. Minden — ruthlessly so,” Barbeau said in a slightly flatter tone, only briefly glancing at him before returning her eyes to the President. “We did indeed receive the letter from the Pentagon, and thank you for the courtesy of keeping the committee informed. Mine is an informal and completely off-the-record courtesy call of my own, Mr. President — I’m not here at the request of the chairman or the committee.”

“I appreciate that, Senator,” the President said, “and I appreciate your time and attention, but we have everything well under control, and we’ll be ready for both the closed- and open-door hearings, as scheduled.”

“I had absolutely no doubt of that, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. She looked at Patrick and Boomer, who were sitting farthest away from her. “The committee will be very anxious to hear from General McLanahan as well, and I in particular will look forward to his testimony with much anticipation.”

“The general’s not scheduled to testify, Senator,” Defense Secretary Gardner said.

“He’s not?” Barbeau made a show of looking completely surprised, although as ranking member she had certainly seen the list of government witnesses scheduled to appear before the committee and would have had to approve each one. “May I ask why, Mr. President? Patrick McLanahan is the nation’s acknowledged expert on long-range aerial attack. He’s been in charge of your fact-finding mission to replace the assets lost after the American Holocaust…”

“Senator, as I’m sure you well know, General McLanahan is an active-duty Air Force officer who has been temporarily assigned to the White House as a military adviser,” the President said. “He receives no compensation from the White House and has no budget. He serves at my pleasure but his service here is dependent on the needs of the Air Force. While here he reports directly to me, and to the best of my knowledge his activities haven’t been announced publicly.”

“This is all very mysterious, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, her smile returning. “I’m sure I don’t recall where I heard of what Patrick’s responsibilities might be, but my sources are mostly well-placed and accurate. I didn’t mean to presume.” The President nodded but said nothing. “Patrick’s thoughts and opinions would be of enormous value to the committee, I’m sure. Could you please add him on the witness list, Mr. President? One day would be more than enough time, with minimal written follow-ups.”

“I respect the needs and wishes of the committee, Senator, and I appreciate your consideration, but in my opinion it’s not General McLanahan’s decision — it’s the National Command Authority’s,” the President said. “As you rightly pointed out, General McLanahan’s the expert, but he’s not the decision-maker. It’s his job to answer my Cabinet’s questions.”

“We have hundreds of experts, agencies, analysts, and consultants advising the White House and Pentagon on this very important matter, Senator,” Minden said. “We can recommend a number of them to appear before your committee…”

“Thank you, Mr. Minden, but as the President acknowledged, General McLanahan is the expert in the field as well as a national hero,” Barbeau said rather testily. “His testimony would add unlimited authority and weight to any argument you’d care to make to the committee, watched and listened to by millions around the world. If he didn’t appear, everyone would want to know why. Do you intend on putting him on the Sunday morning talk show circuit instead?”

“Senator, our witness list is complete,” Carl Minden said firmly. “It’s always possible that we could add witnesses later, but at this stage we don’t anticipate doing so. We know the debate will go on for quite some time — we don’t need to waste ours or the committee’s time with a parade of witnesses all saying the same thing.”

“If there is such a thing as a ‘parade of witnesses,’ Mr. Minden, I would think General McLanahan would be leading that parade — in fact, he should be in the grand master’s limo, being bombarded by confetti and ticker tape,” Barbeau said. “Speaking of which, Mr. President, as you recall, I presented a proclamation on the Senate floor after the general returned from Russia, congratulating his courage and dedication and recommending he be given a hero’s parade in his home town. The proclamation was unanimously approved. Yet the White House kept him hidden away. If anyone deserved to be honored, it was General McLanahan.”

“As you recall, Senator, the nation wasn’t celebrating anything in those days — especially anything having to do with the Russian attacks or the extreme losses the nation suffered,” Vice President Hershel reminded her. “We were going to over a dozen funerals or memorial services a day for weeks; half the government was spread out in secret reconstitution facilities; the citizens were too busy building bomb shelters to be out throwing confetti…”

“I am well aware of that horrible time, Miss Vice President,” Barbeau said in a clipped voice, only glancing at Maureen as she spoke. “But America is strong and we have proven once again that we can take a licking and still prevail with honor and pride. The incident may have been years ago, but Patrick still deserves the honor.”

“We’ll consider it, Senator,” the President offered.

“Then may I suggest, Mr. President, that one way to honor Patrick’s service and patriotism is to allow the American people to hear what he has to say regarding the future of America’s ability to strike back at our enemies,” Barbeau said, a bit more insistently this time. “You could pick no better point person for this very important campaign, Mr. President, I assure you.”

“Thank you for your advice, Senator,” the President said. “I’ll consider it very carefully as well.”

The outer office secretary came in, escorting someone else, who dropped a note into Barbeau’s hand and scurried away. “I feel it would be an insult to General McLanahan to subpoena him to appear before the committee,” she said, casually glancing at the note, “but I suppose that is always an option — unless you intend on exercising executive privilege.”

“That is always an option,” the President said. “But I’m sure we can come to some understanding to avoid any appearance of confrontation.”

“That is always our desire, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, giving the President another heart-melting smile. She then immediately turned to Patrick and said, “General, I know you’ve been out to Eighth Air Force headquarters many times, but just three or four times in the past six months. Are you getting all the information you need? I asked General Zoltrane to give you anything you require, any time, day or night.” Eighth Air Force, based at Barksdale Air Force Base near Boissier City, Louisiana, was the command responsible for all of the surviving long-range B-52, B-1B, and B-2A bombers — and the northern Louisiana districts were her base of power too.

Patrick glanced quickly at the President, whose smile began to dim but nonetheless nodded his assent to respond. “I receive outstanding support from General Zoltrane and all of the units, Senator,” Patrick replied.

“I had absolutely no doubt. But if there is anything at all you need, Patrick, please do not hesitate to call on me. At any time.”

Patrick noticed everyone in the Oval Office sigh and squirm with pleasure at Barbeau’s invitation, sad that it wasn’t directed at them. “Thank you, Senator. I will.”

“I was quite surprised to see you here this morning, General,” Barbeau remarked. “If I recall correctly, my staff had tried to make an appointment to speak with you just yesterday afternoon, and was told you’d be available later this afternoon. Yet here you are in Washington. My, you do get around, I must say.” Patrick said nothing but merely smiled and nodded. Barbeau’s eyes flared a bit as she added, “Almost as if they shot you out here from Nevada on a rocket ship.”

Patrick again glanced at the President and Vice President, who had both adopted stony expressions. Carl Minden stepped over to Patrick. “I hate to interrupt, Senator, but if we’re going to get that report in to your committee on time, we’d better get back to work.”

“Can I speak plainly, Mr. President?” Barbeau asked. “We are aware of the three major proposals being bandied about by the pundits for a long-range attack force: rebuilding the manned stealth bomber fleet, building a fleet of unmanned attack planes, and converting cargo planes to cruise missile launchers. But we have heard inklings of another proposal, using untested and very radical spacecraft technology.” She stepped a bit closer to Martindale. “I want to work very closely with you on this, Mr. President, very closely.”

To everyone’s surprise, the President responded, “You’re right, Stacy. We’re developing a fourth option, one much more advanced than the others.”

“The spaceplane, I do believe?”

“It’s called Black Stallion,” the President said. “It’s a single-stage-to-orbit spacecraft that can take off and land from any conventional runway in the world but boost itself into low Earth orbit, fly coast-to-coast in minutes, or around the world in less than two hours.”

“It sounds incredible, Mr. President!” Barbeau exclaimed. She looked at McLanahan and Noble and immediately understood how and why they were in Washington now. “I can’t wait to hear more. When can my subcommittee get a briefing on this amazing aircraft?”

“We’re still making the decision about whether or not to present it as an alternative to the others for the next long-range strike force,” the President said.

“And I do believe you have the most qualified man working on it — Patrick McLanahan,” Barbeau said. “Wonderful. Well, I hope it doesn’t hold up the bill for too much longer, but I completely understand the need for careful deliberation — we’re talking about a lot of money. The subcommittee staff would be happy to assist the general in writing his reports and gathering data, Mr. President.”

“The Pentagon and the White House national security staff are on it, Senator.”

“Yes, of course. But couldn’t we convince you to let General McLanahan make a closed-door presentation to the subcommittee and give us a sweet little taste of this mysterious new technology.”

“I promise you, Senator, that your committee will receive all of our proposals and supporting data as soon as it’s available, at the appropriate time,” the President said. “We are certainly not going to waste your time or keep you in the dark.” He glanced quickly at Minden, an obvious signal to get McLanahan and Noble out now.

Minden didn’t miss his cue — he stood behind them and tapped them on their shoulders. “General, we’ll be looking forward to your report. Thank you for…”

“Mr. President, may I take General McLanahan and Captain Noble to lunch?” Senator Barbeau asked sweetly. “It would give us an opportunity to get acquainted.”

“I’m afraid I have to excuse myself, Senator,” Patrick said. As he rose to his feet, he was surprised to feel the room seem to move and spin a little, and he had to concentrate to stabilize himself. “I really do have a lot of work to do.”

“Then we’ll have lunch right here in the White House dining room — with your permission, of course, Mr. President?”

“I’m going to have to defer to the general’s busy schedule, Senator. Have your staff give Carl a call and I’m sure he’ll have it set up right away for the earliest possible time.”

“I want the spaceplane impounded and a full investigation started, including complete details on the mission it just flew, who authorized it, and who’s paying for it,” Senator Barbeau said to her aide, Colleen Morna, as they exited the West Wing of the White House. “And I want a full background check on Captain Hunter Noble.”

“Noble? Who’s he?”

“He could be the back-door source I need to break Dreamland and HAWC wide open,” the senator said. “I thought I could get to McLanahan, but the guy is a clueless Boy Scout, and I can’t waste the time on him. Find out everything about Noble — where he comes from, his family, his girlfriends or boyfriends, his schooling, what he drinks and smokes, who he fucks, how often, and how.”

“What he smokes?”

“You can learn a lot about a man just by smelling him — and how he reacts when you do,” Barbeau said. “McLanahan likes the occasional cigar, but Captain Noble likes cigarettes — and he’s not afraid of making a pass at a woman, even a U.S. Senator standing in the Oval Office in front of the President and Vice President of the United States. That means he’s a partier, a ladies’ man, a player. If he’s got a weakness, or ambition, I want to know about it.”

“He made a pass at you?”

“His eyes had me undressed faster than I’ve had in months,” Barbeau said with a pleasured smile. “He’s no shrinking violet, that’s for sure. McLanahan might be the goody-two-shoes, but Hunter Noble is more like the captain of the swim team — and I like jocks, a lot.”

“This is more than a major blunder, Buzhazi — this is an embarrassment to the entire Iranian military and leadership,” the commander in chief of the Iranian Armed Forces, General Hoseyn Yassini, thundered. Younger by eight years and shorter by several centimeters than the man standing at attention before him — and, the man noticed, much softer around the neck and middle since leaving the field for headquarters in Tehran — Yassini was obviously not accustomed to dressing anyone down, and it appeared that he had to put some effort into doing so now. He glared at the man standing at attention before him. “And I thought I ordered you to change your uniform before you came here.”

The man standing at a brace in the center of the office was General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, still wearing his field utility uniform stained with blood and dirt and smelling strongly of smoke, gunpowder, and a large dose of fear. “I thought since you did not see fit to go to Orumiyeh yourself,” Buzhazi said, “that I should come directly to you and give you a little taste of what’s happened out there.”

“I don’t need a lecture or a demonstration from anyone, Hesarak, even you,” Yassini said. “If you look like a jihadi reject here in headquarters, you’ll be treated like one.” He picked up the casualty report, glanced at it, and shook it in Buzhazi’s face. “Two hundred thirty-seven dead, five hundred and eight wounded, most critically, including the brigade commanding officer and three Majlis members.” The Majlis was Iran’s Parliament. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I say give me a single Shock Battalion and I will round up and present you with all of the terrorists — or their heads — within two weeks,” Buzhazi said.

“The Shock Battalions no longer exist, Hesarak, and you know it,” Yassini said. “They have been disbanded for years.”

“I know that all regular army and marine special forces troops have been merged with the Pasdaran,” Buzhazi said. “You have them spread out all over the damned planet, in every lousy backwater mud pit, assisting psychopathic nut-cases who don’t know which end of a rifle is which.”

“Watch your mouth, Buzhazi,” Yassini said. “You may have been the former commander-in-chief, but I am commander of the armed forces now.” He paused, then added, “The Pasdaran was created to protect, defend, and support the Islamic revolution throughout the world…”

“Don’t give me that madrasa indoctrination crap, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “The Pasdaran was initially created as the faqih’s private army to hunt down and assassinate any of the monarchy’s and republic’s sympathizers still left in the country after the revolution. When it was discovered that most of those sympathizers were in the military, the Pasdaran was transformed into a branch of the armed services so they could more effectively spy on fellow soldiers. When it was determined that the Shock Battalions were the greatest threat to the cleric’s regime, they were absorbed into the Pasdaran. I was there, Hoseyn — I saw it with my own eyes.”

Yassini could not argue with Buzhazi’s assessment, although he was careful not to say or do anything that could even be construed as agreement — the walls had ears, and probably eyes as well. “The reason you were sent away to command the Basij, General, is because you have this habit of speaking before thinking,” he said. “I strongly advise you to stop.”

“You know as well as I why I was allowed to command the Basij instead of being executed, Hoseyn — the Supreme Defense Council was hoping some enterprising young radical Islamist would assassinate me so the mullahs could disavow any responsibility for disposing of me,” Buzhazi said. “There were ten thousand such crazies willing to do it.”

“You made sure any dissenters were eliminated.”

“You’re wrong, Hoseyn — I didn’t have anything to do with the so-called ‘purges’ in the Basij,” Buzhazi said. “What I did was simple: I showed the youth of Iran what real leadership was. I gave the really dedicated kids direction, and I isolated the rest. I turned that organization from nothing more than prowling gangs of murderers and extortionists into a real fighting force.” He shrugged and added, “When the true soldiers realized how badly the radicals and Islamists were hurting their organization, they took action. No one had to order them to clean house. It’s nothing more than natural selection and survival of the fittest.”

“It was a purge, Hesarak — that’s what everyone believes,” Yassini said. “You may or may not have ordered it, but you certainly were the inspiration for the purges, and you did not punish the offenders as harshly as the Supreme Defense Council wished.” It was Yassini’s turn to shrug. “But, because of your record of service and your considerable political connections, you survived anyway…”

“I survived, Hoseyn, because even the deaf, dumb, and blind idiots on the Council saw that my forces did exceptionally good work,” Buzhazi said. “While the Pasdaran and Air Force were busy scratching their crotches and fingering worry-beads, my national guard forces were capturing infiltrators and shooting down American spy drones.”

“They were in the right place at the right time, nothing more,” Yassini said — but he knew that, again, Buzhazi was right: the Basij, what Buzhazi wanted to call the Internal Defense Force, had done some remarkable work in the past few years. Their biggest achievement was setting up an ambush for an American Predator-A spy drone near a nuclear research facility. Buzhazi set the trap, computed when and how the little unmanned aircraft would approach the target area, and set his forces in place at precisely the right moment. It was only a Predator-A, the lowest-tech version of the unmanned remotely piloted spy plane, but the catch yielded lots of valuable data on the plane’s capabilities and systems. Buzhazi’s forces had shot down another Predator-A and uncovered dozens of remote data collection and relay devices in the deserts as well, shutting down a good portion of America’s covert spy network in Iran.

Yassini’s aide came in, bowed politely to Buzhazi, and handed Yassini a memo. Here it comes, Buzhazi said to himself — this whole conversation had been nothing more than a way for Yassini to stall until a decision had been made…“General, the Supreme Defense Council has ordered you to be placed under arrest until the conclusion of its investigation into the attack on Orumiyeh,” Yassini said tonelessly.

“If you have me put in prison, Hoseyn, the investigation will get bogged down and nothing will ever happen except the obligatory rounding-up of the ‘usual suspects,’” Buzhazi said. “Let me, or the members of my staff, lead a special forces team into Iraq and Turkey. It was Kurdish commandos, I know it. It won’t take long to…”

“The investigation is already underway, General.”

“Who is in charge?”

“I am.”

“No, Hoseyn — I mean, really in charge.” The commander-in-chief’s face turned stony with anger. “Listen, General, you have some discretion here. Put me under house arrest — that way I can continue to receive reports and coordinate activities with…”

“That’s not possible right now, Hesarak,” Yassini said. He hit a button on his desk telephone, and his aide entered the office, followed by two security guards with AK-74 rifles at port-arms. “Someone has to pay for what’s happened. There was a major breach of security protocols, and the Supreme Defense Council believes it was a lack of leadership and attention to detail.”

“Sounds like they’ve already made up their minds,” Buzhazi said. Yassini said nothing in reply. Buzhazi knew he had only one chance left. “Listen to me, Hoseyn,” he said, stepping close to the commander-in-chief so he could lower his voice. “Don’t play along with this. Imprisoning me is just a knee-jerk reaction to a much broader problem. Iran is concentrating too much on foreign affairs and neglecting internal and frontier security — you know this as well as I. They’re masking their inept military policies by blaming it all on me.”

“No. There will be an investigation. I will…”

“You know how these so-called ‘investigations’ turn out, Hoseyn — you’ve conducted just as many as I,” Buzhazi said. “The report is dismissed and destroyed as soon as it reaches the Council. The Supreme Defense Council — check that, the mullahs on the Council — have already decided who’s to blame. I’m the scapegoat, nothing more.”

“I will conduct a thorough investigation,” Yassini insisted, “and if it’s shown that you did all you could to prevent the attack, you’ll be exonerated and restored to duty with all privileges.”

“Have you ever known an officer to be returned to full active duty status after landing in prison, Hoseyn?”

“Yes — you.”

“I wasn’t sent to prison, Hoseyn — I was stripped of my rank and privileges and sent to the hinterlands to be killed by young radical Islamists,” Buzhazi corrected him. “Some of the mullahs thought I defended the republic adequately — all the others wanted to see me dead.”

“I think you are becoming a bit paranoid, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “I’ll protect you the best I can, my friend, but sometimes I think you are your own worst enemy. Serve your detention in silence, accept responsibility, appoint one of the Council member’s deputies to take your place, beg for forgiveness, and I believe you will be given a short time in a work camp and then a common discharge. You have served this nation well — they won’t punish you severely unless they find true negligence or criminal misconduct.”

“The deputies serving for the Council are nothing but brainless spoiled rotten sycophants…”

“Maybe you deserve to spend a little time in prison, General — a little hard labor might improve your attitude.” He shook his head and wrote orders on the message he received from the Supreme Defense Council. “You are to be sent to a Bureau detention facility. I’ll see to it that…”

“A Bureau facility?” Buzhazi retorted. This bit of news really scared him. The Edarehe Hefazat va Ettelaate Sepah, or Intelligence Bureau, was the Pasdaran military and internal intelligence agency, run by a Pasdaran two-star general. If the Pasdaran itself was fearsome, the Intelligence Bureau was a hundred times worse, because it was from their intensive espionage and monitoring activities that the Pasdaran derived its power. Even though the Pasdaran itself had been officially merged into the unified military command, the Intelligence Bureau still operated quite separately from the military. “I thought you said you were handling the investigation? Why don’t you assign me to your staff investigation directorate? Why aren’t they handling the investigation if you have been assigned the task?”

“The Pasdaran handles investigations involving possible security breaches inside military units…”

“No, the Pasdaran handles the ‘wet work’ for the mullahs,” Buzhazi interjected. “You might as well just put a bullet in my brain now, Hoseyn. They’ll come up with whatever verdict the mullahs want.”

“Be sure not to say any of that at your deposition, General,” Yassini said, nodding to the guards to take him away.

The Pasdaran headquarters, including their directorates of operations and intelligence, was located at Doshan Tappeh Air Base on the eastern outskirts of Tehran; the heavily fortified installation was also the headquarters of Iran’s air force, air logistics command, and several aircraft maintenance, repair, and modification centers. Buzhazi was taken inside the Pasdaran headquarters compound, a thirty-acre walled fortress on the northwestern side of the air base, and turned over to a very large, burly, bearded jailer who looked as if he lived in the subfloor jails. He was ushered into the central building, down two flights of stairs, and down a long corridor to the detention facility. He was taken past several dozen locked solid steel jail cells to an in-processing room, which had a fingerprint station, desk, computer, stainless-steel examination table, file cabinets — and, Buzhazi noted, sound-deadening tiles on the walls and ceiling.

“Strip, prisoner,” the big jailer ordered after his handcuffs had been removed.

“As you were, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “You’re speaking to a general officer.”

“I said strip, prisoner,” the jailer growled again.

“My name is General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, commander in chief of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘general.’” The jailer reached out to grab Buzhazi, but the general deflected the jailer’s hands away. “You dare use physical force against a superior officer?” He was careful not to scream or curse at the jailer — he wanted to sound authoritative, not crazy or threatening. “Before I was chief of the general staff, I was commander of all Iranian Shock Troops.” The jailer was surprised to hear that his prisoner was the former chief of staff. Buzhazi hoped that the corporal would equate the disbanded “Shock Troops” with “Pasdaran” and back off a bit — the Pasdaran had no respect whatsoever for the regular army. “We were taught how to immobilize the biggest man without weapons. I won’t hurt you, but I will not allow you to abuse me like a common criminal.”

“You will stop resisting and comply, prisoner.” He reached for him again, eyes blazing in fury. Buzhazi let the jailer grasp him by his tunic, then easily broke the jailer’s grip and shoved him away, digging the tip of his thumb into the man’s sternum. Even though the jailer easily had thirty kilos on the general, Buzhazi knew exactly where the vulnerable pressure points on a man were.

Now the jailer was completely confused. Buzhazi saw him glance at the red alarm button on the wall, and he knew if he reached that button, Buzhazi would be restrained…or, more likely, shot for resisting. “Corporal,” Buzhazi said quickly, in a bit more conciliatory voice, “I am not going to tell you again: I am a general in the Iranian military, and I have not been charged with a crime. You will address me as ‘general’ or ‘sir,’ and you will not attempt to touch me, is that clear? If you extend to me this ordinary sign of respect, I will comply with your instructions.”

The jailer was obviously now concerned that he couldn’t handle this thin, older man by himself; afraid that he would be dismissed from this post, perhaps even punished, for not doing his job. “You must obey my orders…”

“And so must you, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “What are your orders?” The jailer blinked and said nothing. “You were not given any orders, so you assumed I was to be treated like any other prisoner and processed in the usual manner, correct?” The jailer was obviously still mentally wrestling with this very nonstandard encounter. “What is your name, Corporal?”

“Tahmasbi…” Buzhazi let his eyes dig into the jailer’s until he added, “Sir.”

“Corporal Tahmasbi, as your superior officer,” Buzhazi said in an even, trusting, measured voice, “I instruct you to secure me in a conference room, with access to a telephone and computer if available. Bring in some fresh juice for me from the mess. If there are any other flag grade officers in this facility that have not been charged with a crime, bring them in here as well.” The jailer just stood there, dumbfounded. “Corporal? Do you understand these instructions?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

“But what? Do any of my orders violate your general orders or any other orders you have been issued since you have assumed this post?”

The jailer thought for a moment, and his eyes brightened. “No, sir, they do not.”

“Then get your ass in gear, now,” Buzhazi said. “If your sergeant major has any questions, have him come see me. Now take me to a conference room.”

“Yes, sir.” The jailer averted his eyes and opened the door to the processing room.

“Corporal Tahmasbi.” The jailer stopped as if stuck in concrete. “You can’t just let me walk out of here, can you? I’m supposed to be in your custody.” The jailer meekly nodded and carefully, almost gingerly, took Buzhazi by the arm. “And, Corporal?”

“Sir?”

“Just because you work in the jails and generally only see the scum of our proud military does not mean you can go around with an unkempt beard, dirty uniform, and unpolished boots,” Buzhazi said, looking the man directly in the eyes, not raising his voice at all but speaking firmly and authoritatively. “If you want to act like a soldier, look like a soldier. And get yourself into a gym and replace that fat with some muscle. I can teach you how to control a man with the lightest touch, but I need something to work with first. Get yourself into shape and I’ll make a shock trooper out of you in no time.”

Things went much easier from that moment on. Buzhazi allowed himself to be led by the upper left arm — it would look better to others if the jailer physically held him — through the hallway to a large briefing room where each shift was briefed before beginning their tour of duty. That was where they found a Pasdaran master sergeant at a desk, doing paperwork. As soon as Buzhazi saw the noncommissioned officer in the room, he loosened himself from the jailer’s grasp and strode ahead of him. The master sergeant saw the general enter the room, shot to his feet, and stood at attention. “Room, atten-shun!” he said.

“As you were, master sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “I am General Buzhazi, commander of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. I have need of this room.” He turned to the jailer. “Thank you, Corporal. Carry on.” The jailer snapped to attention, then got out of there as fast as he could. Buzhazi turned back to the NCO. “Your name, Master Sergeant?”

“Fattah, sir.”

“Do you recognize me, Master Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. You…are the former chief of staff. I believe you are currently commander of the Basij…”

“I prefer they be referred to as the Internal Security Forces,” Buzhazi corrected him. The master sergeant nodded, his mind obviously still in a bit of confusion as to what was going on. “You were notified of my arrival here?”

“The message informed me that you are to be held here until further notice. You will be sent to a separate wing until…”

“Until my office is ready, this room will suffice.”

The NCO hesitated. “Office, sir?”

“I’m here to organize the detail that will be sent out to hunt down the terrorists that perpetrated the attack on my units in Orumiyeh.”

“But I thought…er, I thought…”

“We don’t think around here, Master Sergeant — we have orders which must be obeyed until officially countermanded by legitimate orders from a verified higher authority. What are your orders regarding me, Master Sergeant?”

“I…I was told in the message to hold you and await instructions.”

“I am issuing additional instructions to you now,” Buzhazi said, “that do not violate any other orders and as such you will obey immediately. You will clear two phone lines for me and give me the passcodes to access the secure high-speed computer network lines. Where are my staff officers?”

“‘Staff officers,’ sir?”

“I was assured that other officers that are to be under my command were sent here, with orders that they are to be detained until further notice. They were to report to me as soon as possible. Where are they?”

“I’m sorry, General, but I’m not familiar with any officers sent here to be detailed to you,” Fattah said. He paused for a moment, then added, “We have several in detention awaiting interrogation or disciplinary action, but I don’t think they would be suitable for any activities such as you are describing.”

“That’s for me to decide, Master Sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “Have them report to me immediately.”

“I can bring them here to you, sir,” Fattah said, “but I may not release them to you without written orders from headquarters.”

“Understood. The passcodes?” Fattah handed Buzhazi a card. The passcodes on the card, which were changed regularly, were combined with each soldier’s own personal code to allow access to the secure worldwide network. “Very well. Carry on.” Fattah snapped to attention and departed.

As soon as he departed, Buzhazi hurriedly composed several messages on the computer to his staff officers and unit commanders around the country — using coded phrases and “virtual” e-mail addresses so the Pasdaran or their Intelligence Bureau investigators would hopefully find it more difficult to trace and decipher the messages or their intended recipients — advising them on what happened in Orumiyeh and the Supreme Defense Council’s reaction. He knew it was very possible for the Pasdaran to keep him here permanently without anyone else knowing he was here, or for him to just disappear without anyone being able to investigate or question any action. All communications in and out of all headquarters complexes were screened in real time by the Intelligence Bureau, but hopefully at least one message would make it out.

If none did, he would end up worse than dead — it would be as if he never existed.

He had barely hit the “SEND” button on the last message when Fattah returned with three men, all secured at the wrists with waist chain restraints. Two of the men wore gray and white striped prison overalls; the third, to Buzhazi’s surprise, wore a battle dress uniform with subdued brigadier-general’s stars on it! Like Buzhazi himself, it appeared he had come in directly from the field, without the opportunity to change uniforms or clean up. “Here are the men you requested to see, sir,” Master Sergeant Fattah said.

Buzhazi got to his feet and looked the men over. The first officer in prison garb stood at attention but returned the general’s glare. “Your name?”

“Kazemi, Ali-Reza, flight captain, One-Thirteenth Tactical Airlift Squadron, Birjand, sir.”

“Why were you brought here, Captain?”

“I am not aware of any legitimate charges brought against me, sir.”

Buzhazi glanced at Fattah, who said, “Accused of stealing a transport jet to smuggle goods from Afghanistan and Turkmenistan, and for running a black market operation on government property, sir.”

“What sort of goods?”

“Food, medicine, weapons, fuel, clothing.”

“Is this true, Captain?”

“I am innocent of all those charges, sir.”

“Of course you are,” Buzhazi said sarcastically. He turned to the general officer. “I know you, don’t I, General?”

“I believe we have met, sir. Brigadier-General Kamal Zhoram, Commander, Second Rocket Brigade.”

“Pasdaran.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sooner he got rid of this guy, Buzhazi thought, the better. “Why are you here, General?”

“I am to be questioned about an incident this morning at a field test in Kermān province, sir.”

“What sort of incident?”

“An attack, sir.”

“Someone attacked you — in Kermān province?” Kermān province was completely surrounded by other provinces, shared no boundaries with any foreign countries, and had no cross-border or ethnic problems — it was considered as safe and secure as any Persian province could be. Orumiyeh was much more dangerous and had a long history of clashes with Kurds, Turks, and Turkmen, but this story of another attack really got Buzhazi’s attention. “What sort of attack, General?”

“An air attack, sir.”

“An air attack?” Buzhazi was shocked. He had a thrill of spine-numbing fear as he recalled the American B-2 stealth bomber attacks that devastated Iran’s air defenses and naval forces not that many years ago. Were the Americans gearing up for another attack? Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to question Zhoram about it. “I find that highly unlikely, General, but we’ll discuss it later.” He moved to the third prisoner, then immediately stepped back, out of smell range. The man had deeply sunken cheeks and eyes, thin hair, wasted neck muscles, and he trembled slightly. “What the hell is your story, soldier?”

“Heroin addict, sir,” Fattah said.

“What is he doing here? Why are you wasting valuable resources on him?”

“He’s an officer that we suspect is running a drug smuggling operation in Khorāsān province,” Fattah said. “We’re drying him out so we can question him on the others in his network.”

“How long have you been ‘drying him out,’ Master Sergeant?”

“Three days, sir.”

“What do you think the others in his network are doing while he’s in Doshan Tappeh getting ‘dried out,’ Master Sergeant?” Buzhazi asked angrily. “Do you expect them to be sitting around waiting to get caught? They are long gone by now.”

“We must conduct an investigation nonetheless, sir,” Fattah said, “so we will continue using a rapid-detox protocol which includes high doses of sedatives and naltrexone to alleviate the withdrawal symp…”

“I’ll show you the proper treatment protocol for a heroin addict, Master Sergeant,” Buzhazi said…and drove his right hand into the man’s throat, splitting his trachea and cracking his vertebrae. The man’s eyes bugged out until they looked as if they’d pop out of his head, then rolled up inside his skull, and he hit the floor like a bag of rotten pomegranates.

“General, no!” Master Sergeant Fattah shouted. He pushed Buzhazi away and bent down to examine the nearly decapitated body.

As he was being pushed away, Buzhazi grabbed Zhoram and pulled him close. “Do you expect to get your command back once the Pasdaran completes its investigation of the attack, General?” he whispered urgently.

Zhoram hesitated, shocked at the sudden flurry of action around him, but the shock lasted only moments. “I’ll be dead or in prison, General,” he said simply. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be simply discharged and returned to my family penniless and disgraced.”

“As will I,” Buzhazi said. “So. Will you fight or will you submit?” Zhoram hesitated again, looking away, but Buzhazi’s grasp and urgent growl locked his eyes back on Buzhazi’s. “Answer me, Zhoram — fight or submit?”

“Fight,” Zhoram said. “The Pasdaran doesn’t want answers — they want someone to blame, and the sooner the better. I want the ones that attacked my rocket forces.”

“I’ll come for you,” Buzhazi said. “Join me and you will get your fight. Cross me, and I’ll cut your guts out with a spoon.”

“Free me, and I’ll fight with you, General,” Zhoram said. “I swear on the eyes of Allah.”

Buzhazi grabbed Zhoram’s crotch. “You’ll be swearing to me by these, General — because if you cross me, I’ll make you eat them.”

“I swear, General. Free me and I’m your man.”

“Good.” He turned to Kazemi, who was watching the two generals and not paying any attention to the dead officer. “What about you, Kazemi? Are you Pasdaran?”

“Air Corps, yes, sir.”

“Are you a smuggler?”

“Only when my squadron’s supplies are siphoned off by the regional headquarters at Shīrāz, sir,” Kazemi said. “I was tired of losing my men to cold and hunger and flew some helicopters to the border to trade with nomads and black marketeers. I find it faster and easier to trade with Afghan nomads than confront corrupt Pasdaran supply officers. If you’re getting out of here, sir, take me with you.”

“I don’t trust thieves, no matter how noble their reasoning.”

“I stole only for my men and their families, sir, not for myself,” Kazemi said. “I’d do it again if necessary.” Buzhazi hesitated. “If you won’t take me, sir, then do me a favor and shoot me on your way out,” Kazemi added, “because I’d rather die at your hands than be turned into a drooling blubbering vegetable by these Pasdaran goons — and they’ll do it, because I’m not implicating my men or the Afghans that helped me. I’ll bite off my own tongue before I talk.”

“Brave words, Captain…”

“You…sir, you have killed him!” Master Sergeant Fattah exclaimed. “He’s dead!”

“Exactly what he needed to cure his heroin addiction,” Buzhazi said proudly. He looked at Kazemi but said nothing. “Get that piece of human garbage out of my sight, Master Sergeant, and let me get back to…”

“To what, General Buzhazi?” a voice asked. Buzhazi looked up and saw a Pasdaran three-star general standing in the doorway, hands casually behind his back. “Do you think you’re going somewhere?”

“General Badi,” Buzhazi said, choking down a shiver of panic, “how good to see you.” Lieutenant-General Muhammad Badi, commander of the Pasdaran-i-Engelab, or Islamic Revolutionary Guards, was about Buzhazi’s height but several kilos heavier, with slick-backed dark hair, a thin moustache, and a thick jowly neck. He wore a black Pasdaran battle dress uniform, high-topped black riding boots, and a web belt with a large Belgian or Austrian-made pistol in its holster. Badi wore an amused smile as he surveyed the scene in the conference room, but Buzhazi knew it was a crocodile’s smile — Badi was as dangerous and unpredictable as they came in the Iranian military forces. “I was expecting you.”

“And you prepared a gift for me — a prisoner with a broken neck? How touching, Hesarak.” Badi felt comfortable calling Buzhazi by his first name because to him Buzhazi was nothing but a disgraced, incompetent officer that should have been eliminated years ago.

Back when Buzhazi was chief of staff and nominal commander of the Pasdaran, Badi was the senior Pasdaran officer in charge of deploying Iran’s limited stockpile of reverse-engineered Russian nuclear weapons. Thanks to Buzhazi’s influence with the Supreme Defense Council, Badi convinced them to agree to deploy the weapons aboard a refitted Russian and Chinese nuclear-powered aircraft carrier called the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Badi was dead-set against such a move — the American naval superiority in the Middle East and Indian Ocean region was unquestioned — but Buzhazi’s plan was put in motion despite his strident objections.

The ultimate insult: as the senior officer in charge of all of Iran’s nuclear weapons, Badi was assigned as the second in command and chief tactical officer aboard the Khomeini, under Major Admiral Akbar Tufayli. The admiral was the fifth highest ranking Pasdaran officer and the highest ranking Pasdaran naval officer, and he never missed an opportunity to let everyone around him know it. He was an incompetent boob that had no idea what power he commanded. Tufayli was killed by the Americans as he tried to flee the carrier; in the meantime, the American air force decimated Iran’s air defenses.

The blow to Iran’s military and the mullahs’ plans to dominate the entire Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea region was severe, especially for the defeated and disgraced chief of staff Buzhazi, but for Muhammad Badi the episode was his ticket to the top. The Supreme Defense Council realized that everything Badi had been saying was true: it would take Tehran years, perhaps decades, to match American military power in the Middle East, so why waste the resources to try to do so? Instead, build small tactical nuclear weapons, place them in the hands of Pasdaran special operations forces around the world, and challenge the Americans in the one area they were not prepared to handle — guerrilla warfare.

That’s exactly what the Supreme Defense Council decided to do, and they placed the program in Muhammad Badi’s hands, along with a fast promotion and almost unlimited money and authority. While Buzhazi was sweating away in the Iranian hinterlands trying to teach young Iranian men and women to fight like Persian soldiers instead of common street thugs, Badi was the master of the Pasdaran…and the nuclear arsenal that was secretly being assembled.

“I just thought I’d relieve you of some human garbage, Muhammad,” Buzhazi said. “You’re not angry, are you?”

“If you feel the need to show off your big bad commando skills in front of my men and these other prisoners, Hesarak, be my guest,” Badi said. “Are you quite through now?” He turned to the master sergeant. “Sergeant, what in hell are these prisoners doing out of their cells?”

“I…er, the general, he ordered them brought here, sir.”

“The general, eh? General Buzhazi is a prisoner here, Sergeant — perhaps one small step up from that dead officer lying there, but only just.”

“But I…Sir, I received no orders regarding the general except that he be held here. I received no list of charges, no sentencing order, no…”

“Are you this stupid every day, Sergeant, or is today something special?” Badi asked. “Buzhazi is an enemy of the republic and is considered a traitor and possibly a spy, assisting terrorists to enter the country and attack military bases. He deserves to be hung naked by his thumbs for the rest of the year, but that decision will be left to the Supreme Defense Council. Until then, he will be placed in isolation and monitored twenty-four-seven. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any more words that the general utters in your’s or your men’s presence is to be recorded and transmitted to me immediately, to be collected and used against him at his court-martial — if he’s still alive when it commences. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get that piece of diseased meat out of here, put those other prisoners back in their cages, then place yourself on report. I will escort the general to his cell — after we have a little chat. Get moving.” The master sergeant barked orders, restraints were placed on General Buzhazi, and Badi took him by the arm and led him out of the briefing room. As they walked down the corridor, Badi remarked, “I see the old Buzhazi charm is still working. Don’t tell me — it was your superior powers of persuasion that prompted one of the most senior soldiers at Doshan Tappeh to not only let you out of your cell but to let three others out as well.”

“It’s called ‘leadership’—treating a soldier like a fellow warrior instead of an idiot,” Buzhazi said. “You should try it some time.”

“Actually, I’m sure it was our fearless leader Yassini’s fault for not leaving specific instructions regarding your arrest and detention,” Badi conjectured.

“Another example of poor leadership: blaming others for your own failures,” Buzhazi said. “Fattah and Tahmasbi were just following orders.”

“Who?”

“Yet another example of poor leadership — you don’t even know the names of your key personnel, not even the master sergeant on duty. And it’s ‘master sergeant,’ Muhammad, not ‘sergeant.’ Calling Fattah a ‘sergeant’ is an insult to his years of service.”

“I guess I’m getting quite a lesson in leadership from you this morning, aren’t I, Hesarak?” Badi said. They approached the office of the security detachment commander, where another very large guard resembling Tahmasbi, except perhaps bigger and meaner-looking, was standing at attention. Badi told the security commander he needed his office, and he motioned for Buzhazi to step inside after he had departed.

Buzhazi stepped to the center of the room. “So what brings the chief of the Pasdaran to the dog pens, Muhammad? I would think you’d want to distance yourself from me as much as possible.”

“I’ve had little trouble doing that since I worked on your headquarters staff, Hesarak,” Badi said as he moved to sit behind the security commander’s desk, leaving Buzhazi standing before him. He started drawing geometric shapes on the polished sandalwood desk before him. “My investigators collected sixteen bodies from the disaster at Orumiyeh, Hesarak. Most died in the truck bomb explosion and the gunbattle that followed; several others had burns and other serious injuries but had a single shot to the head, execution-style.”

“A dead Kurd is a good Kurd.”

“I didn’t say all were dead, Hesarak,” Badi said. “A few were still alive and even conscious.”

“Good. Make them talk. We’ll find out where their base or home cities are and launch a punitive attack immediately.” He looked at Badi suspiciously. “You know, Muhammad, I’m very suspicious about the details of that attack.”

“Oh?”

“It was almost perfect…too perfect,” Buzhazi said. “My Internal Defense Force personnel at Orumiyeh were the best of the best — the showpieces of my new force.”

“Looks like they weren’t as good as you thought, eh, Hesarak?”

“The Border Defense Battalion was specially trained to detect and repel foreign invaders, especially Kurdish terrorists, because of their location so close to Kurdish-controlled territories…”

“Guess they screwed up — the outcome of your vaunted leadership skills, no doubt.”

“Security was airtight,” Buzhazi went on. “I’ve encountered some experienced and excellent Kurdish soldiers, but this attack was uncharacteristically precise, fast, and lethal, even for the most highly trained Kurds I’ve ever known.”

“What are you getting at, Hesarak?”

Buzhazi looked carefully at Badi, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Muhammad. I have nothing. I might still be in shock — I can’t concentrate on any details. All I can see when I think about it is body parts scattered around me like ripe fruit fallen from trees in an orchard.”

“Well, concentrate on this for a moment, Hesarak,” Badi said. “The men we are questioning have already given us a great deal of information, almost all of it corroborated with each other and with intelligence information we’ve already received — such as the number in their attack squad.”

“That could be useful — or it could be a lie,” Buzhazi said. “If it’s a lie, we can use it against them in later interrogations. However, I’d be cautious of exactly-matching responses, Muhammad — they could have been coached as a group to give false or misleading information.”

“I don’t think so,” Badi said. “They told us other interesting pieces of information — such as some of them were captured by your men.”

“My men? I came to Orumiyeh to preside over a stand-up ceremony for a border defense unit — I didn’t bring any men. I didn’t even bring…”

He didn’t hear him coming until it was too late. While Buzhazi was distracted, Badi’s bodyguard had closed the office door, withdrawn a metal baton, and swung it full force, striking him in the right kidney area. Buzhazi’s vision exploded into a cloud of stars, and all he could hear was the terrifying sound of a freight train out of control rushing at full volume in his ears. He gasped at first until the full shrieking tsunami of pain rolled over him, and he cried aloud and dropped to the carpet, writhing in agony.

“If I didn’t know you better, Hesarak,” Badi said, “I’d say you captured those prisoners and are secretly interrogating them.” Buzhazi didn’t hear him until Badi repeated himself a few moments later after the roaring in his ears had subsided. “What do you have to say to that, General?”

“I…I’d say you know me pretty well, Muhammad, my old friend,” Buzhazi said through the choking clouds of pain.

“Where are they? I want them.”

“Of course you do, you piece of shit — because they’re Pasdaran, aren’t they?”

Badi’s eyes widened in surprise and his mouth dropped open in confusion, but only for a moment, and then the crocodile’s smile came back. “Very clever, Hesarak. Did you know, or did you just guess?”

“I suspected it, but when you showed up here, I knew,” Buzhazi groaned. “It’s the only logical reason why you would come down here and interrogate me personally. You sent Pasdaran Special Forces disguised as Kurds to attack fellow Iranian soldiers? Why, for God’s sake?” Badi didn’t answer — but his eyes told the whole story. “You’re shitting me, Badi — you did it because you thought the Internal Defense Forces would replace the Pasdaran as guardians of the revolution?”

“Your units were good…almost too good,” Badi said. “You stood up that base at Orumiyeh for a tenth of what it would cost the Pasdaran, and in less time than anyone would have guessed. Yassini and the Supreme Defense Council were starting to take notice. A few on the Council argued that paramilitary forces couldn’t take the place of the Pasdaran, that they would flee at the first sign of the enemy — I just took his suggestion and staged a little raid. Your men didn’t run, I’ll give them that, but they were completely unprepared. It was easier than I ever could have hoped…”

“Except for some of your men being captured, you mean?”

“Before long you will be terminated, and soon after so too your Internal Defense Force project,” Badi went on, “and the Pasdaran’s budget and border security responsibilities will be fully restored — perhaps even increased, as they should be.”

“You’re nothing but a sick, egomaniacal bastard, Badi,” Buzhazi said. “You can’t stand to be subordinate to anyone, so you stayed quiet about Tufayli’s incompetence as captain of the aircraft carrier Khomeini, and then after he was dead you blamed the whole defeat on me. I never would have thought you’d stoop so low as to kill your own people to advance your career.”

“Why not, Hesarak? Your career certainly isn’t going anywhere. You could have raised the Prophet up from the dead, and you’d still be known as the one who lost Iran’s regional military domination to a numerically inferior Western force. And since Yassini is such a proponent of this idiotic Internal Defense Force idea, he’ll go down too…”

“And you’ll be promoted as chief of staff and remain head of the Pasdaran.”

“Why stop there? If I can plant enough false memos and directives, I might implicate the president in the whole Internal Defense Force scheme and take him down too — and I can slip into that position as well.”

“All I have to do is trot out your Pasdaran agents captured in the raid wearing Kurdish terrorist outfits, and your game is up.”

“Not if I can get to them first, Hesarak,” Badi said menacingly. “That’s why you’re going to tell me where they are.”

“Screw you.”

“General, I’m going to take great delight in watching you be tortured by my man here,” Badi said, nodding to the very large man standing over Buzhazi. “He’s going to do it the old-fashioned way — not with unpredictable drugs, but with good old-fashioned physical torture. You’re too old to resist it. My man is an expert on knowing exactly how far he can take old geezers like you through the corridors of pain, to the very thresholds of coma and death, without crossing over. All of your Shock Trooper training from thirty years ago won’t help you one bit.”

“Fuck you, Badi.”

“It’s going to take us a few minutes to get set up, Hesarak. We’ll let you think about what is about to happen to you. If you talk, and if what you say is true and my men are recovered, I’ll kill you quick and painlessly. Otherwise, you will experience levels of pain that you can’t imagine. And it won’t be continuous or cause unconsciousness — it’ll be slow, lingering, sharp, and unexpected. Before long you’ll be screaming information at me and begging for mercy. You can end any such unpleasantness by telling me what I want to know. I know my man here will be disappointed by not performing his tricks on you, but he’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

Badi rose from the desk, grabbed Buzhazi by the hair, and said in his face, “You’ll be taken to an interrogation room, Hesarak, and prepped. You’ll be ‘wired for sound,’ as they say — your tongue, your testicles, your heart, and your entire nervous system will be plugged into a nice big electrical transformer that we can precisely control. But there is no ‘volume control’ on this device, Hesarak — just an ‘on’ and ‘off’ switch. It’s full voltage every time. It’ll be interesting to see how you do. I strongly recommend you tell me what I want to know, now, before the fun really begins.”

“I said, go screw yourself, Badi,” Buzhazi said. “By the time you get anything out of me, my men will have changed locations a half-dozen times. If I’m dead, my men will trot out those captured Pasdaran commandos and release their videotaped confessions. The warrant for your arrest will be issued shortly after that. You might as well start getting out of the country now. May I suggest South America?”

“At the very least, we can find out what else you might know,” Badi said. “As I said, as we go on, you’ll be most anxious to tell us all sorts of things. This I guarantee. Good-bye, Hesarak. This will probably be the last time I see you with all of your faculties still intact.” Badi patted Buzhazi’s face, then motioned to the bodyguard. “Have the general taken to an interrogation room and prepared for his ‘debriefing.’ Have them notify me immediately when he breaks.” The bodyguard nodded and opened the door for the general…

…and Badi saw a man in light gray fatigues, desert combat boots, and the blue beret of the Iranian Air forces standing in the doorway. Behind him stood three soldiers, similarly dressed, carrying automatic rifles. “What is this?” he shouted.

“Greetings, General Badi,” the first soldier said — and in the blink of an eye he raised a sound-suppressed Russian Makarov automatic pistol, fired three shots just past Badi’s left ear and directly into the torturer’s face, then pushed Badi inside and closed the door, leaving his three soldiers to guard the outside. The soldier dumped Badi to the carpet with a kick to the side of his left knee. The Pasdaran general screamed aloud at the pain and shock of the sudden attack. “Who in hell are you?” he cried.

“You don’t recognize me, General?” the soldier asked. “You took great delight in ruining my career about eleven years ago.” He tossed a set of handcuff keys to the Pasdaran commander, then pressed his pistol against his forehead. “While you’re thinking, release General Buzhazi, now.”

Badi crawled over to Buzhazi and unlocked the handcuffs; Buzhazi grabbed the keys and released the waist chain. “Now I remember…Sattari. Mansour Sattari, Buzhazi’s chief of staff.”

“Very good, General,” the young officer said. After the handcuffs were removed, Sattari had Badi place them on himself, then helped Buzhazi to his feet and waited until the injured general was able to stay on his feet by himself. “If the general is injured, Badi, you die right here and now.”

“Killing me won’t help you get out of here,” Badi said. “There are over a thousand armed Pasdaran guards here.”

“Your security force here at Doshan Tappeh is exactly three hundred and fifteen soldiers per shift, Badi,” Sattari said. “I brought a team of just a hundred lightly armed Internal Defense Force soldiers and killed or captured every one of the guards on duty already. Your day shift got too cocky and overconfident, Badi — they obviously thought no one ever wants to break into a Pasdaran compound, especially at daytime.”

“You won’t get out of here alive, Sattari.”

“We’ve got units monitoring the eight other Pasdaran bases in the city, and if they move on us they’ll be neutralized as well. We’ll be out of here before any other security forces arrive — and you’ll be long dead.” He raised the pistol.

“Wait,” Buzhazi said. He took the pistol from Sattari’s hands. “I think it’d be better to put him on trial for the murders of all those men and women in Orumiyeh. We have positive proof that the men we captured alive were Pasdaran?”

“No question, sir,” Sattari said.

“All your evidence could’ve been faked with ease,” Badi said. “Besides, the Supreme Defense Council won’t accept any evidence you give them. They’ll blame it all on internecine rivalry and warfare and send us both on our ways — except the Pasdaran will be after you and all the traitors who joined you as soon as the Council adjourns. You might as well use this temporary advantage to flee the country, Buzhazi, before you are publicly executed for treason — by me.” Sattari and Buzhazi looked at each other — obviously the very same thought had crossed their minds. Iran was no place for them now, and it was too late to turn back. “The Basij have no hope of eliminating the Pasdaran, Hesarak. It was created solely as a means of providing the Pasdaran with cannon fodder so the Iraqis would waste their bullets on them and allow the Pasdaran to attack during the War of Glorification. Your Basij forces will always be nothing but cannon fodder.”

“We took your headquarters with little trouble,” Sattori said.

Badi ignored him. “With you in temporary control of this base, you can hijack an aircraft that will easily take you to Africa, Europe, or Asia. Better get out now, while you can.” He smiled as he watched Sattari silently pleading for Buzhazi to agree, and he saw Buzhazi’s eyes start to dart back and forth as his mind examined his options over and over again…

…milliseconds before Buzhazi said, “No, Mansour. We continue as planned,” then fired three bullets into Badi’s brain.

Sattari spit on the nearly headless corpse and nodded. “Good riddance. That should’ve been done years ago.”

“We’re committed now, my friend,” Buzhazi said, checking the pistol, accepting a full magazine from Sattari, and reloading it. “Let’s avenge the deaths of our brothers in the Internal Defense Forces, and then let’s get this revolution started.”