Strike Force

CHAPTER 2

Boomer always thought that it felt like hitting the water on the Splash Mountain ride at Disneyland, bumpy and noisy amidst the sudden shock of deceleration — except the feeling lasted eight minutes, not two seconds.

With a one-hundred-eighty-degree x-axis turn and a ninety-second burn from the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane slowed down to about five thousand miles per hour and immediately began its descent through the atmosphere. Once slowed down, Hunter Noble used the spaceplane’s maneuvering rockets to turn forward again, then lift the nose slightly to the proper altitude to expose the heat-proof carbon-carbon underside of the Black Stallion to the worst of the friction. He followed an electronic cueing system displayed on his primary multi-function display, similar to a terrestrial Instrument Landing System — as long as he kept the crosshairs perfectly centered in the middle of the display, he was on course and on glidepath for atmospheric reinsertion.

“Boomer, check your flight control computers, they’re not engaged,” the crew mission commander, First Lieutenant Dorothea Benneton, call-sign “Nano,” said from the forward compartment. Benneton was a high-energy, type-A personality, barely contained by an engineering degree and an Air Force commission — she liked to party and she liked being in control of every situation. She had to take a deep breath and force her words from her mouth through the high G loading during re-entry. “Did they pop off-line?”

“No, I just didn’t engage — I thought I’d hand-fly this re-entry,” Boomer replied, his voice shaky and hoarse as well.

“Don’t you screw with my test parameters, Boomer, or I’ll kick your butt,” Benneton warned only half-jokingly. “Stay on glidepath.”

During re-entry the air around the spacecraft got so hot that it ionized and disrupted normal radio communications, so the team normally used a laser radio system that bounced laser beams between satellites to communicate with the spaceplane. But the message they received was actually over the normal encrypted UHF radio channel: “Stud Two, this is Control, how do you hear?” radioed Air Force Colonel Martin Tehama, the commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, from his headquarters at Elliott Air Force Base.

“Three by, Control,” Boomer replied. He turned to Nano and gave her a wink. “Looks like your gadget is working, Dottie.” Enough heat was being sucked away from the skin to keep the air from ionizing, permitting regular radio communications.

“Why aren’t you on auto control, Two?” Tehama asked. “I show the flight control system in ‘STANDBY.’ Is there a problem?”

“Now I’m getting the nagging in stereo,” Boomer said. Reluctantly he switched on the autopilot, keeping his hands on the controls until he was sure the system was responding properly. “Everyone happy now?”

“Why do we bother writing up a test flight plan if you’re not going to follow it, Boomer?” the commander asked. To Benneton he said, “Nice job on the protection system upgrades, Lieutenant. Looks like it’s working pretty well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nano responded, grunting through the G-forces. “I’ve still got some higher than expected temperatures in the cargo bay, but it looks like the temperature’s holding — Boomer hasn’t fried anything yet.”

As they continued their descent the aerodynamic flight controls took greater and greater effect, and soon they were executing some lazy-eights and steep-banked S-turns across the sky, which helped to slow and cool the spacecraft even more. With the outside thermal protection layer temperatures now below 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit — the safe structural temperature limit for the spacecraft’s titanium-vanadium skeleton — Boomer was clear to maneuver as he pleased, and he headed straight for Elliott Air Force Base’s 23,000-foot long runway on Groom Lake in south-central Nevada.

It was not Hunter’s best landing. He turned toward the runway late and landed about three hundred feet short, on the overrun — fortunately the overrun, while not stressed as highly as the main runway, supported the Black Stallion’s weight adequately. He noticed fire and rescue trucks racing toward him as he zoomed down the runway, then slamming on the brakes and reversing direction as he zipped past the preplanned stopping point. He used almost every foot of the three-mile-long runway to stop, but he safely turned off before reaching the end and headed for the hangars.

“The cargo compartment monitors shut down — probably due to high heat,” Nano said as she monitored the computerized shutdown process. “If my experiment is trashed, Boomer, I’m going to give you a smack in the head.” Noble didn’t respond. As soon as the onboard data was collected, the spacecraft completely shut down, and the inspection stand rolled into place, she hopped out and climbed up onto the platform to look at the cargo bay passenger module.

Hunter had a bad feeling about the outcome when he saw daggers flying out of Nano’s eyes, aimed directly at him. “What?” he asked.

“Black streaks coming out of the seam in the bay doors,” Benneton said frostily.

“The whole spacecraft is black, Nano. How can you…?”

“It’s built-up heat and oxidation, Boomer,” she said. “I’m going to slit your throat, I swear.” A few minutes later, with firefighters and paramedics standing by, they opened up the cargo doors — and an undulating, shimmering gray cloud of smoke and heat rolled out. Nano was shaking her fist in the spaceplane pilot’s direction as she stared into the cargo hold. “Boomer, wait till I get my hands on you…!”

It took several long, agonizing moments to move a crane into position to lift the passenger module out of the cargo bay and onto a cradle in the hangar. Luckily the cradle was covered with heat-resistant materials, because the module was definitely hot, like a fat steak fresh off the barbecue. As expected, the electrical door opening mechanisms didn’t work, so the ground crews started to work on the mechanical locks. By the time the locks had been twisted free, a small crowd had gathered at the hatch, morbidly curious as to what the insides looked like. Nano herself grabbed a pair of insulated gloves and grasped the latch…but before Benneton could open the hatch, the levers moved and the door swung open from the inside.

“About time, Doc,” the electronically synthesized voice of Air Force Brigadier General Hal Briggs said. A wave of heat rolled out through the open hatch. “We thought you guys forgot about us.”

“For God’s sake, General…are you all right?” Benneton asked breathlessly.

“I’m okay — a little bored, that’s all,” Briggs said. He was inside a “Tin Man”—powered exoskeleton, a protective suit of electronic armor made up of composite materials thousands of times stronger than steel but just a fraction of the weight. The suit was composed of a material called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically Responsive Process, that kept the material flexible but instantly hardened into an almost impenetrable shell if struck. The BERP material was surrounded by thin microhydraulic actuators in a lightweight composite framework that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed. The suit had a variety of sensors, communications equipment, and weapon control functions built into it, as well as its own environmental controls to keep the user comfortable in extreme conditions.

Benneton started to reach in and undo the straps securing Briggs in the aft-facing seat. “Let’s get you out of there, sir…”

Briggs held up a large armored hand. “Better not, Doc. My readouts say it’s over one-seventy Fahrenheit in here.” He looked over at his comrade while he undid his harness. “You okay over there, Sergeant Major?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the second passenger, U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl replied, also wearing Tin Man armor, his usual emotionless monotone clearly identifiable through the electronic voice synthesizing system. The big Marine was seated in a forward-facing seat. He turned to Benneton while he unbuckled his harness. “I assume it’s not supposed to get this hot in here, Doc?” he deadpanned.

“The sergeant major has just expended his allotment of quips for the year,” Briggs interjected.

“Take it up with the aircraft commander,” she responded perturbedly. “If he had let the computers fly the re-entry and it stayed precisely on the programmed glide path everything would have been fine.” The bug-eyed helmeted figure looked at Benneton, then Noble, but said nothing in reply.

After downloading and checking all of the recorded data from the Tin Man suits, Briggs and Wohl disconnected and stepped out of the exoskeleton, removed their helmets, and shuffled off to the back of a Security Forces flatbed truck, helping themselves to cigars and bottles of water as they rested. “It was a good ride until the re-entry, Doc,” Briggs said. “I think normal folks would have trouble with that re-entry, though — other than the heat, the g-forces are pretty severe. Can’t you make it so you pull fewer g’s?”

“We did a two-point-five-g re-entry, which is about half of normal,” Hunter Noble said. “The Tin Man suits may have made it feel heavier than normal. How do you feel, Sergeant Major?”

“I feel fine, sir,” Wohl said. “Perhaps all of the seats should be forward-facing — the aft-facing seats get a pounding during both takeoff and re-entry.”

“Roger that,” Briggs agreed. “I know what ‘Spam in a can’ feels like now.”

“I’d also suggest maybe a few windows in there too,” Wohl added. “The commando delivery vehicle the Air Battle Force uses has windows.”

“I’ll bet it doesn’t go suborbital, Sergeant Major,” Hunter said. “Were you getting a little airsick up there? We noticed your vitals getting up there.” A warning glare from the big Marine told Boomer to terminate that line of questioning immediately. “Maybe we can put a computer monitor up front that can transmit mission data as well as outside horizon views. Good suggestion, Sergeant Major.” Wohl nodded, which instantly made Boomer feel that his life had just been spared.

“I’m sorry you had a rough ride, General,” Nano said, concern still evident in her voice.

“Hey, I had a great time, Lieutenant,” the Air Force Security Forces one-star general said. Hal Briggs was always an animated, energetic guy, but his face was fairly beaming as he remembered the flight he just took. “Man, I was in space. Me! I joined the Army to see the world, but I never thought I’d see it from space!” Hal Briggs had originally joined the U.S. Army but transferred to the Air Force when being a Ranger got too unexciting for him. “I’ll fly with you anytime, boys and girls, with or without the suit. Just call.”

After a brief physical exam, the first stop was maintenance debrief, which usually lasted a couple of hours. Mission data automatically datalinked to Earth stations during the flight was compared to digital mission logs collected on the ground, and then the smallest departure from flight-planned or nominal readings was examined and discussed. The flight crew sat together at a desk surrounded by six computer monitors, each linked to a different main office of the maintenance complex — propulsion, environmental/life support, electrical/hydraulic/pneumatic, payload, communications/computers, and airframe — and answered questions transmitted to them by technicians in the control center, aircraft hangar, and records room.

It was past noon and well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside in the Nevada sunshine when Noble, Benneton, Briggs, and Wohl finally stepped out of the maintenance debrief building, where they found Colonel Martin Tehama waiting for them. He saluted Briggs. “I hope you are okay, General, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I’m glad to hear the medics gave you a clean bill of health.”

“Actually, I feel pretty good, Colonel — like I had a really vigorous workout,” Briggs said. “I guess whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, eh?”

“Yes, sir. And you, Sergeant Major?”

“Fine, sir,” Wohl said in his typical low, almost growling voice.

Briggs lit up a cigar, watching with interest as Tehama’s eyes widened in concern. “Uh…sir?” the HAWC commander said apologetically. “We don’t allow smoking here at the complex.”

Briggs nodded and looked directly at the Air Force full colonel. “Is that so, Colonel?” he asked simply, taking another deep drag of his cigar. “I’ve been assigned here for…what, Chris? Damn near twenty years?”

“A very long time, sir,” Wohl rumbled.

Briggs continued to stare at Tehama. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a ban on smoking outdoors except on the flight line, weapon storage area, and hangars,” he went on.

“Well, there is, sir.”

Briggs nodded, took another deep drag of his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew a cloud of smoke into Tehama’s face. “Duly noted. Is there anything else for me, Colonel?” he asked.

“Sir, I think it’s a bad example for the men to have a general officer flouting my regulations,” Tehama tried one more time.

“Do you think your men will be flouting your regulations because of me, Colonel?”

“I don’t believe they will, sir, no.”

“Then I don’t believe we have a problem here, Colonel.”

“But if the men see you violating one of my regulations…”

“Will that prompt them to go ahead and disobey your regulations?”

“I don’t think so, sir. But it…it shows a lack of regard for my regulations.”

“A lack of regard for some of your regulations, Colonel…like having a cigar after my first space flight, away from the flight line, outdoors, in a parking lot.” Tehama said nothing. “You are free to report my flagrant violation of your regulations to General Edgewater at Air Force Materiel Command, or to Major-General Furness at Air Battle Force. Want their numbers?”

Tehama briefly appeared as if he was going to argue with him, but he decided against it, scowling. “No, sir,” he said, saluting. Briggs raised his cigar to return his salute, and Tehama turned to depart.

“Oh, Colonel — what did you come out here for anyway?” Briggs asked.

Tehama stopped and half-turned, kicking himself for forgetting. “I need to speak with Captain Noble.” He could smell another waft of fine cigar smoke traveling his way and wished he had one himself right now.

“Very well. Carry on.”

Tehama strode quickly yet stiffly over to where Boomer and Nano were loading gear into a staff car. They both saluted their superior officer, but Tehama didn’t return their salutes. His conversation with Boomer and Nano was very short: Tehama stopped in front of them and, with his eyes averted and his face a mask of anger and frustration, said simply, “Benneton, I want the report on the module on my desk by sixteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Nano responded, wondering if she had enough time and then immediately deciding, based on Tehama’s pained and angry expression, that she had better make the time.

“Noble, you’re off the flying schedule,” Tehama said. “You will report to the flight surgeon for a complete medical and psych eval.”

“A psych eval…?”

“I find you moody, irritable, refusing to follow orders, argumentative, and distracted, possibly depressed or in some way unbalanced,” Tehama said. “Further, and much more seriously, you willingly violated a major operational security directive by landing during an enemy satellite overfly window period — I shouldn’t need to remind you that we are still technically in a state of war. You’re grounded until I get the report from the flight surgeon. Get on it, both of you.” He walked away without another word, not returning their salutes, or even looking up.

Boomer wore a stunned expression as they watched Tehama walk away. “Can you believe this shit?” he exploded. Nano averted her eyes. “Grounding me is one thing…but a psychological evaluation? If that shows up on my records, I’ll be out of this program in the blink of an eye! I won’t be able to get a job spraying fertilizer over a bean field, let alone fly in space ever again. He can’t do this to me! Maybe he’s the one who’s come unhinged, eh, Nano? Wonder what he and General Briggs were talking about? Wonder if they’d get mad if I asked them?” When Nano didn’t respond, he looked at her, and saw her still looking at the pavement. “What’s up, Nano?”

“I gotta go write that report,” was all she said.

But she didn’t need to say anything else — her blank expression told him everything. “You agree with Tehama?” he asked her. “You think I need a psych eval?”

“You were acting real weird today, Boomer,” she responded woodenly. “You were fighting everything and everyone, wanting to do it your own way. What’s up with that?”

“We do that on every mission, Nano — you know that,” Boomer said. “This isn’t Edwards, Eglin, or Pax River — we don’t always follow a set program because our job is to get the weapon systems in the flight test units’ hands as soon as possible. Before Tehama showed up, no one was complaining when I’d hand-fly a re-entry or land a little hot. Why am I getting shit now?”

“You’re getting a psych eval because you argued with the boss, Boomer.”

“Tehama’s worried about his promotion and his pension — he doesn’t want anybody messing up his perfect little world. We need to get someone in charge here who cares more about putting hardware on the line rather than his career.”

“When are you going to learn that you’re not going to find a field grade officer bucking for general’s stars who’s not afraid of ruining his career?” Benneton asked. “A guy’s been in the service twenty-plus years and he wants everything to go nice and smooth so he can nail down his retirement; he wants no black marks on his record so he can show off a clean, successful résumé to defense contractors or consulting clients after he punches out. Guys like Tehama are looking at the end of their Air Force careers, not the beginning, and they need that job after retirement to supplement their pitiful government pensions. You and me, we get employment offers every week, and for a hell of a lot more money than guys like Tehama will ever see.”

“Hey, I’m not an idiot — I know all that,” Boomer said, the frustration evident in his voice. “But we can do amazing stuff out here if we’re allowed to do it. Technical and scientific hurdles I can handle — it’s the bureaucratic and personality junk that get me angry. Why can’t they just let us do our thing?”

“You sound like a complete adolescent nerd, Boomer,” Nano said. “Go see the shrink, and try not to aggravate him or he’ll put you in a straitjacket and then I’ll have twice as much work to do around here.” She started walking toward her office inside the guarded flight test compound, then turned and shouted over her shoulder, “And I’m still pissed at you for ruining my test flight. Like I said: payback’s a bitch.”

“Is everyone in position?”

“Yes, sir,” Sattari said. “Looks like just a skeleton crew on duty.”

“As we expected,” Buzhazi said. “Let’s do it.”

Buzhazi didn’t usually go for symbology, “winning hearts and minds,” or going for shock effect — it was risky to commit precious men and equipment to anything that didn’t have concrete tactical purpose — but in this particular case, the mission could have tremendous psychological and morale impact if properly executed…

…and if improperly accomplished, he would simply just revert to the original plan: go in and kill everyone who dared stand in their way.

The Faqih Sayyed Ruhollah Khomeini Library of Jurisconsult, located just outside the Jamkaran Mosque and next to the Hazrat-e-Ma’sumeh shrine in the city of Qom, was the largest and most modern of the many libraries of Shi’ia Islamic thought and scholarship around the world. Completed two years after the death of the Imam Khomeini by tens of thousands of volunteers from all over the world, and intended at first to be Khomeini’s final burial place, the library was considered the home of the concept developed by Khomeini of velayat-e faqih, or “guardianship of the Islamic jurists,” in which all law, jurisprudence, and governance should be controlled and carefully supervised by clerics, not the people, scholars, lawyers, royalty, the wealthy, or any elected representatives.

Without question, velayat-e faqih was the root of all evil in Iran. All law in Iran under the mullahs was based on their interpretation of the Koran, a centuries-old book that was as much fable and mysticism as it was a guide on how to conduct one’s life as set forth by God. Getting around the law was simple: just get a more favorable interpretation. Whatever Iran’s parliament, the Majlis voted for could be overturned or changed in a heartbeat by the whim of the faqih, the Imam Mostafa Shīrāzemi, through the authority of the Council of Guardians, and there was no recourse. Shīrāzemi — his real name was Kazemi, but as was the custom after being chosen as an ayatollah, he adopted the name of the city of his birth — was a former commander of the Pasdaran and a close political adviser to the previous faqih before assuming the role of the Supreme Leader of Iran, and he knew how to manipulate the system. He appointed six of the twelve members of the Council of Guardians and had approval authority over the other six members chosen by the members of the High Judicial Council, who themselves had been appointed to their positions by the faqih.

In other words: the system was infested with vermin; the vermin had to be eradicated, and the nest incinerated — and this place was most definitely the nest.

Dressed in uniforms as the Pasdarans, Buzhazi’s forces situated themselves near three of the library’s entrances. They were careful not to deploy any forces on the west side of the library — that side faced the holy shrine of Hazrat-e-Ma’sumeh, Shi’ite Islam’s second holiest shrine, about a hundred meters away. What they were about to do would certainly inflame a lot of religious passions already — there was no use in angering the faithful even more by desecrating one of their holy places, even if it was by accident.

Buzhazi had a plan ready to break down the large concrete and steel doors to the library, but that wasn’t necessary — a guard waved him over when he noticed them assembling outside. Buzhazi ordered his men to drive their vehicles right up to the gates as if they were deploying to protect the entrances — and when they did so, the guards inside, young Pasdaran troopers fresh out of school, admitted them immediately. “Status of your security detail, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked as he stepped inside the heavy door, casually looking around.

“My God, sir, where have you been?” the young enlisted trooper asked. “We have not been relieved since our security regiments departed.”

“Is that any reason to abandon safety protocols, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked. “Get your finger off that trigger. Never place your finger inside that trigger guard unless you’re prepared to kill someone.” He grasped the young trooper’s rifle and flicked the safety switch on. “Same for the safety.”

“Sorry, sir. Sorry.”

“Pay attention from now on, soldier. Where is your platoon leader?”

“Gone, sir.”

“To whom do you make your post reports?”

“Uh…we inform the imams when they ask, sir,” the trooper said. “We weren’t told who else to report to.”

Buzhazi shook his head. “That’s fine, Specialist. You and your comrades will report to my company commander from now on. I relieve you. Report over there right now and do as you’re told.” The trooper started to hurry off toward the vehicles arrayed outside the gate, then stopped, returned to his spot, rendered a salute, and managed to wait until it was returned before hurrying off again. Within moments the entire security detail on this gate, just a dozen men, had left their post and were in custody; within minutes, the other two entrances were secure as well. The prisoners would be given a choice: swear allegiance to Buzhazi and join his insurgency, or die. Not one moment of hesitation would be tolerated.

Buzhazi, Sattari, and a group of six security men entered the library. The place was as beautiful inside as it was stark outside: tall soaring ceilings capped with a beautiful mosaic tile dome, polished marble columns, shining marble floors inlaid with gold and silver, and long rows of oak bookshelves surrounded by tables, chairs, rugs, and computer workstations. A magnificent thick topaz carpet outside of an ornately decorated archway signified the entrance to the Khomeini mosque.

There was no one in the library at this hour. Just as Buzhazi started to worry about how to find the mullah in charge of the place, his wish was granted the moment he set foot on the topaz carpet without removing his boots: a man in a white turban and long flowing white and gray robes came running out of nowhere, waving his hands, followed by several assistants. “You! You! I have told you a hundred times, you may not enter the shrine of the faqih without permission from the imam! Now go!”

Buzhazi stood his ground. “I wish to speak with the imam immediately, priest,” he said.

“Have you gone mad? Morning prayers are not for another two hours — the imam receives no one until after prayers unless it’s an emergency, and normally not until after breakfast and morning rituals.” The mullah looked at Buzhazi. “I do not recognize you, soldier. Remove your helmet in this holy place and identify yourself.”

“I have information that you have important visitors here from Tehran with you, priest,” Buzhazi said, keeping the helmet in place. “I want to speak with the imam, immediately.”

“You will remove yourself from this place immediately!” the mullah shouted. “I shall see to it that you are relieved of duty and flogged for this act of gross disrespect!”

Buzhazi turned to one of the young men that had followed the mullah. “Does this man know where the imam is?”

“We all serve the imam of this library. But he will do nothing except…” He didn’t finish his sentence…because Buzhazi had withdrawn his pistol from its holster and shot one round through the mullah’s forehead. In a flash Sattari had his pistol out as well, covering the other acolytes.

Buzhazi kept the smoking pistol in his hand but did not point it at anyone. He turned to the young man he had just referred to: “Okay, son, now I’ll ask you the same question: do you have some special guests from Tehran here, and will you take me to them?”

The young man hesitated, then nearly fainted from fear as he saw Buzhazi roll his eyes impatiently and begin to raise his pistol. “Yes! Yes! We have guests staying here! Important men from Tehran, members of the Leadership Council, the Assembly of Experts, the Council of Guardians, and the Majlis.”

“And?”

“And…” He looked at the dead body of the mullah lying on the once-immaculate marble floor, his face ashen, and nodded. “Y-yes, I will take you.”

“Good boy.” Buzhazi motioned to Sattari, who radioed for more units to follow them inside and secure the library. “Describe where we’re going first, then take us.”

“So what about your spaceplanes, Patrick?” President Kevin Martindale asked. “Where do we stand?”

“The second Black Stallion spaceplane is ready for operational flight testing, and the third will be ready in six months, sir,” Patrick replied. “The contractors are already tooled up for spare parts production and spiral upgrade development. They can be ready to restart full-scale production within two months of initial funding: we could have two more spacecraft ready within twelve months; the tankers can be ready in six months. Fuel and oxidizer are commercially produced worldwide, readily available, easily shipped and stored, and require no special training to handle — no need to expose the program by procuring or storing large amounts of cryogenic materials. The aircraft and tankers are easily concealed and deployed, need no special security or storage, and blend in with the tactical military inventories of any air base in the world.”

“So you can build another Air Battle Force made up of spaceplanes and park them out in Dreamland — with you in command?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked. “Got this all figured out, eh, McLanahan?” To the President he added, “The committees will see right through that, sir. Barbeau will get what she wants; then, at the first inkling of trouble from Dreamland — and I can guarantee there will be trouble — she’ll spearhead the charge to cut off funding and pillory you as the grand architect of the failed spaceplane scheme.” He glanced at McLanahan and said plainly, “With all due respect, sir, McLanahan is damaged goods.”

“He might be right, Patrick,” the President said. His attention was redirected at his chief of staff’s surprised expression. “Carl? What’s going on?”

“A call from Secretary of State Carson, sir,” Minden replied, releasing the dead-man’s silencer button on the handset, his eyes darting over in McLanahan’s direction. “There’s an Iranian general by the name of Buzhazi…that asked to talk with McLanahan. He says it’s urgent.”

“Buzhazi? Hesarak Buzhazi?” McLanahan exclaimed. “The ex-chief of staff of the Iranian armed forces?”

“What in hell’s going on, Carl?” the President asked.

“The State Department verifies that the call is coming from a secure official government telecommunications facility from Qom, Iran, relayed via satellite phone through the Swiss embassy in Washington,” Minden said. “But we have no way of verifying if it’s really Buzhazi.”

“I thought Buzhazi was dead,” Vice President Hershel said. “Wasn’t he executed by the Ayatollah or the Iranian Revolutionary Guards after the attacks in the Straits of Hormuz? Can you bring us up to speed, Patrick?”

“Yes, ma’am. Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi was the chief of staff of the Iranian military and head of their Revolutionary Guards Corps, the Pasdaran, several years ago. He tried to close off the Strait of Hormuz between the Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman by ringing the shipping lanes with anti-ship missiles, with bombers carrying supersonic anti-ship missiles, and even using an ex-Russian aircraft carrier. We slapped him down pretty hard, and he was removed from his post — permanently, I thought. We had no hard evidence that Buzhazi had been executed; we thought he was driven deep underground or escaped Iran to a neighboring Arab country. We were surprised when he turned up as the commander of the Basij, their volunteer federal paramilitary force. Command of the Pasdaran was turned over to a deputy.”

“Why is he calling you, McLanahan?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked.

“I have no idea, sir.” Sparks scowled, not sure if he should believe him and deciding to check that out for himself.

“I remembered talking to the cocky bastard,” the President said acidly. “He can lie and deceive with the best of them. If he thinks he speaks for the Iranian government, he’s up to something. I want to find out what.” He turned to Patrick. “Talk to him, Patrick, but don’t give him anything until we get a chance to check out whatever he says.”

Jonas Sparks didn’t like junior staffers like McLanahan taking over his responsibility, and he decided to move quickly before this got completely out of control. “Mr. Minden, route the call to my office and I can take it in there.”

“No, take it here,” the President said. Minden shook his head in surprise: the President never allowed any business other than his own done in the Oval Office — the place always seemed a madhouse, but the chaos always centered on him. “Patrick, talk to him. I’d like to hear what that bastard has to say.”

The chief of staff looked warily at Sparks, worried that the President’s most senior advisers were being displaced by McLanahan, but right now powerless to do anything. He hit a second line button: “Signal, this is the chief of staff, verify that the voice translators are functioning and sending the real-time transcripts to the Oval Office…very well.” He went over to a hidden credenza beside the President’s desk, withdrew a tablet computer, logged in, inspected a script streaming on it, then hit the speakerphone button and motioned to McLanahan with a reluctant nod.

“This is General McLanahan in Washington,” Patrick said. “To whom am I speaking?”

In a thick Middle East accent but in very well-spoken English a young man replied, “Good evening, sir. My name is Kamran Ardakani, and I am a student of theology and government at the Faqih Sayyed Ruhollah Khomeini Library of Jurisconsult in Qom, in the Islamic Republic of Iran. I am translating on behalf of General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, the officer in charge of the military force here.”

“How do I know you are translating for Buzhazi?”

There was a rather long pause; then: “The general tells me to tell you that he knows that your black friend Briggs sent the assassin to kill him and that she begged for mercy like a diseased whore before he executed her…may Allah have mercy on her soul.”

“It’s fucking him all right, the bastard,” Patrick said. Over ten years earlier, Patrick and a task force from the Air Force, Marine Corps, and Iranian anti-government groups attacked Iranian military targets throughout the country before the Iranian military, led by Buzhazi, could completely disrupt shipping through the Persian Gulf. The last target was Buzhazi himself, led by a female commando from the Gulf Cooperative Council’s special operations military force by the name of Riza Behrouzi. Hal Briggs had worked very closely with Behrouzi and formed a personal bond during the operation — but she was killed during the assassination attempt, and Buzhazi escaped. “So what does he want?”

Another pause; then: “The general has ordered me to inform you of what has just occurred here, in my own words,” the translator said. “A force of approximately two hundred armed men has taken over the Khomeini Library here in Qom. The soldiers guarding this facility have been captured and the imam in charge has been killed, by the general’s own hand. Before the general’s raid, the library was being used by many members of the government, both clerics and laypersons, who sought shelter here following insurgent raids in Tehran.”

“‘Insurgent raids in Tehran?’ I hadn’t heard anything about this!” Sparks exclaimed beneath his breath. Chief of Staff Minden immediately went to another phone to get confirmation.

“I do not know the status of the imams and government officials who were staying here — the general is not allowing the staff to attend to them,” the student named Ardakani went on. “He and his men have barricaded themselves inside the library and appear to be preparing for a very large battle.”

Patrick was silent for a few moments; then, to everyone’s surprise, said, “Ask General Buzhazi if he is requesting assistance from the United States of America.”

National Security Adviser Sparks’s eyes grew wide in disbelief and he emphatically drew a finger across his throat. “Stand by please, General,” Patrick said, then hit the “MUTE” button on the speakerphone.

“Are you insane, McLanahan?” Jonas Sparks thundered. “You’re asking Buzhazi, the nutcase who tried to start an all-out naval war in the Persian Gulf — with nuclear weapons, I might add — for our help?”

“Buzhazi is up to something,” Patrick quickly explained. “I remember reading about him when I was at the Air Intelligence Agency. He was sold out by the clerical leadership and the Pasdaran at the end of the Gulf of Oman conflict. The leadership was afraid simply executing him would have incited the regular army to declare him a martyr and avenge him, so they demoted him and put him in charge of the Basij, the volunteer paramilitary force in Iran — sort of a militarized AmeriCorps. Speculation was that the clerics were hoping someone in the Basij would do the dirty deed.

“Instead, Buzhazi went about purging the Basij of all the fundamentalist Islamists and just plain-old wackos, and in a few years’ time had transformed it into a real fighting force he renamed the Internal Defense Force. Rumor was that his IDF might actually take some duties away from the Pasdaran, like border security and rural police. But the Basij went down in numbers from almost a million to less than fifty thousand, still mostly very young or very old volunteers, so it was mostly disregarded as a military force.” He fell silent for a moment. “Qom is the religious center of Iran and the second most important Shi’ite Islam city in the world. The library he mentioned was built for the Ayatollah Khomeini’s burial site. When Khomeini’s body was moved to Tehran, the place was turned into a center of Islamic legal thought, training, and indoctrination — but its design makes it look more like a fortress.”

“What does that have to do with offering Buzhazi assistance, McLanahan?”

“The translator mentioned ‘insurgent raids,’” Patrick explained. “What if the leadership in Tehran evacuated the city and moved to the Khomeini library in Qom? No Iranian in his right mind, religious or not, would dare invade a holy city like Qom — except a nutcase like Buzhazi. What if Buzhazi is the insurgency? He guesses or discovers that the clerical leadership evacuated the capital and hid out in Qom, and he went down there to…”

“To what, McLanahan?”

“To snuff them all out,” Patrick concluded, his eyes wide. “He’s getting his revenge on the clerics who stripped him of his rank and title.” He turned to the President and said, “He’s staging a military coup in Iran — and he’s asking for our help.”

The President’s eyes widened in disbelief. “My God, that’s incredible,” he breathed. “What an opportunity…”

“You can’t trust Buzhazi, even if he had a snowball’s chance in Hell of pulling it off,” Sparks said. “He’s just as likely to turn on his friends and allies as he is the clerics in his own country!”

“But it’s worth a try,” Vice President Hershel said. “At least with an active and capable opposition group in Iran the place could be greatly destabilized for years — even if Buzhazi fails, any other home-grown anti-government groups might have a chance.”

The President turned to his chief of staff and said, “Carl, call in the National Security Council and as many members of the Cabinet as you can convene in an hour. Have them bring every scrap of data they have on the current military, anti-government, insurgent, and political status in Iran. I want analysis of this situation and suggestions on an American response.” Minden was on the phone in an instant. To Sparks he asked, “Jonas, what seaborne strike assets do we have available in the Persian Gulf area right now?”

“Not a whole lot, sir,” the national security adviser said, rattling off the information off the top of his head as presented to him in his daily status briefings. After the devastating Russian attacks that destroyed almost all of America’s long-range land-based strike capability, the most common question from the President’s lips whenever a crisis was brewing was “Where are the carriers?” “There is one aircraft carrier battle group in the Persian Gulf now, but it’s scheduled to rotate out with another group in two days.”

“That’ll have to be delayed for now.”

“Yes, sir. The second carrier from Seventh Fleet is in the Indian Ocean, within two days’ steaming time to Iran, and another carrier group is a few more days behind in the South China Sea — with just ten carrier battle groups in the fleet now, we’re stretched thin. Fifth Fleet is reporting fully operational, but they are heavily committed to operations in Iraq already.” Fifth Fleet, based in Bahrain, was the U.S. Navy’s permanent presence in the Persian Gulf, but it normally had no aircraft carriers assigned to it except in wartime.

“So the chances of sending a Marine Expeditionary Unit to Iran to help Buzhazi defend himself and rally the people to support his coup…?”

“Dropping two thousand Marines into central Iran, with their entire military alerted? Slim to no chance, sir,” Sparks said. “General Glenbrook would have to give us the exact figures, but I would guess it would take several days of planning and a week minimum to mobilize those kinds of forces. An assault from the Persian Gulf or Gulf of Oman would be out of the question — that’s the first place they’d be watching for such a move — so we’d try a feint from that direction and bring the main force in overland from Turkey, Turkmenistan, or Afghanistan. That would take even longer to set up.”

“But all of this is assuming we want to support a military coup in Iran,” Minden said. “As I recall, Buzhazi was one of the most aggressive military leaders ever in Iran. As far as we know, he was the architect of Iran’s nuclear program — he certainly made it clear he would use the few nuclear weapons we know were in his control. We need a lot more information before we’d ever contemplate supporting him — it would be akin to deciding whether or not to support a Saddam Hussein or Pervez Musharraf all over again.”

“This is an opportunity we shouldn’t pass up, sir,” McLanahan said to the President. “Buzhazi has taken a small force of volunteers and captured one of Shi’ite Islam’s most holy sites, apparently along with several high-ranking members of Iran’s clerical government. There’s only one reason he’s taken a chance to track me down and call me in the middle of this operation, and that’s because he knows he’s teetering on the brink of success or failure. If he fails, the clerical government will purge the entire country of any other opposition and completely crush them. Iran will be driven even deeper into fundamentalist isolation for another generation…”

“And if he wins, we could be looking at another military dictator in the heart of the Middle East, astride one of the world’s most important shipping routes, with trillions in petrodollars — and nuclear weapons — at his disposal,” Minden said.

“We don’t know that, Carl,” the Vice President said, “but I agree with the former: if the clerical government survives, they’ll squash any group that even hints at opposing the government. We support a dozen Iranian opposition movements: the National Council of Resistance, the Mujahedin-e Khalq, the National Liberation Army, a number of student anti-theocracy groups, and even surviving family members of the deposed monarchy. The Pasdaran will fan out all around the globe to track down any groups that might gain inspiration for another coup from Buzhazi.”

The Oval Office fell silent. The President was stone-faced, masking his own doubt and indecision; after a few moments he motioned back to the speakerphone. Patrick hit the button: “General Buzhazi, are you still there?” Patrick asked.

They could hear a man’s voice speaking in the background; then the young English-speaking theology student said, “The general wants to know who else is listening to this conversation.”

“Tell the general it’s none of his damned business,” Patrick snapped. “Ask the general what he wants of me.”

After a slight pause: “He says you have said it yourself, sir.”

“I want the general to say it, in his own words,” Patrick said. “You don’t have to translate, Mr. Ardakani — we’ll do it ourselves.”

There was a rustle on the line as the receiver was apparently passed from hand to hand. The President took the tablet PC in his hands to read the computer-generated translation himself. As the older voice spoke in the background, the streaming text read: “That cursed bastard McLanahan…” then: “Very well. The Internal Defense Forces under my command are committed to destroy the Pasdaran and the murderous religious regime that spawned them, or die trying. This so-called library is the birthplace of disaster, betrayal, and ruin for the Iranian people. It will become either the killing grounds of the new defenders of the people, or it will be known as the place where the people of Iran began to take back their homes and government from the religious tyrants. You can choose to help us, or sit in your comfortable chairs and do nothing.”

“I still haven’t heard a request from you, General Buzhazi,” McLanahan said. “Make a request, sir, or this conversation is at an end.”

The computerized translation noted several unintelligible words, interspersed with profanity; then: “Help me, General McLanahan. Send your stealth warplanes, your shadows of steel, and help me destroy the Pasdaran. I am outnumbered over fifty to one. I have killed or wounded a number of Pasdaran infantry when they tried to ambush me at Arān, but I discovered the plot against me and prepared a response. The rest of the Pasdaran are undoubtedly on their way to Qom to finish the job.”

“How many?”

“I estimate the Pasdaran have mobilized three infantry battalions, possibly one armored battalion, and one helicopter assault battalion against us,” Buzhazi responded.

“Five battalions?” Sparks exclaimed. “Almost an entire Pasdaran division up against a few insurgents? There’s no way Buzhazi’s going to survive, no matter how good or lucky he is.”

“What about the regular army, General?” Patrick asked.

“The regular army has not been mobilized and remains in their garrisons,” Buzhazi responded. “We have intercepted communications between Tehran and the military districts commanding them to begin mobilizing for battle.”

“Will they join the Pasdaran?”

“If my forces are crushed, everything stays as before — they will stay quietly under the heel of the Pasdaran or face being purged,” Buzhazi said. “But if my forces appear as if they might prevail, they may join the revolution. I have attempted contact with several friends in the regular armed forces, but none have responded, so I do not know if I shall receive any help at all from anyone.”

“Why should the United States join you if the regular army, the forces you once commanded, won’t?” Jonas Sparks asked.

“Who is this? Identify yourself.”

“This is National Security Adviser General Jonas Sparks, General Buzhazi,” Sparks said. “What does the United States get in return for helping you?”

“You would want to see the clerical regime crushed too, I think, General Sparks.”

“Only to be replaced by someone like you, General?” Sparks thundered. “You’re the one who tried to close off the Persian Gulf to every warship except yours. You were ready to destroy an American aircraft carrier with nuclear weapons…!”

“All that was eleven years ago, Sparks,” the translated text read. “The only thing that has not changed is the bloodthirsty nature of the clerical regime. You know they have nuclear weapons, Sparks — they have many more than when I was chief of staff, and the Pasdaran is more ready than ever to use them.”

“What makes you better than the clerics or the Pasdaran? Frankly, I don’t see much difference between you.”

“Do not let your bigotry against all Iranians blind you, Sparks,” Buzhazi said. “The difference between us is I want Iran to succeed, flourish, and prosper — the current administration and the clerics only want themselves and their twisted brand of Islam to flourish, at the expense of all else. I want Iran to stop all foreign intrigue, stop sponsoring terrorism and revolution in other countries in the name of Islam, and stop threatening its neighbors. Iran can be the desert flower of southwest Asia and take its place among the great powers of the world if the theocracy can be defeated.”

“How do we know this isn’t some trick?” Sparks asked. “You’d like nothing better than to shoot down a stealth bomber, spy plane, or special ops transport over Qom, wouldn’t you, Buzhazi? You’d become the defender of the holy city, the hero of Islam, the sword of Allah avenging the ass-whupping you got eleven years ago. You’d get your stars and your command back and look real good in the eyes of the ayatollah if you sucker-punched the United States, isn’t that right, Buzhazi?” They waited for a response, but nothing came. “The bastard hung up. Confront him with the truth, and he runs scared. It’s a bluff, Mr. President. He’s got something up his sleeve.”

“It sounded to me like he was desperate, General,” Patrick said.

“If half of what he said is true, I’ll bet he’s desperate,” the President said. He put away the tablet PC translator, rubbed his eyes wearily, then said, “A lack of judgment or poor planning on Buzhazi’s part doesn’t constitute an emergency on my part, no matter how interesting or important the opportunities may be. General Sparks.”

“Sir?”

“Meet with the National Security Council staff right away and come up with some recommendations,” the President ordered. “If you don’t have the intelligence data you need to make a decision, get it as quickly as you can. I’d like to hear your thoughts as soon as possible.”

Patrick knew right away that the President was done thinking about this topic — he was intentionally vague about when he wanted anything, and he wasn’t talking about a “plan of action” as he normally did — he was asking for “thoughts” and “recommendations,” which were something entirely different. This development was definitely going on the back burner unless he did something. He quickly interjected, “Sir, in the meantime, may I recommend…”

“Patrick, talk it over with General Sparks at his earliest opportunity,” the President said distractedly. “He’ll assemble all the recommendations from the Joint Chiefs together with State and other sources and present all possible options to me, including yours. I’ve gotta move on to other issues. Thanks, everyone.” That was the unmistakable signal that the meeting was at an end.

As they filed out of the Oval Office, National Security Adviser Sparks pushed past McLanahan. “Excuse me, sir,” Patrick said, “but I’d like a minute to brief you on…”

“Have it on my computer in an hour, McLanahan,” Sparks interjected impatiently, “and I don’t mean the spaceplanes — I want a plan of action from you using the Air Battle Force unmanned and manned bombers and ground forces at Battle Mountain. If it’s not on there in an hour, it won’t factor in.”

“It’ll be there, sir,” Patrick said. “About the nomination to HAWC…”

“Jesus, McLanahan, don’t I have enough to chew on right now?” Sparks thundered. Over his shoulder, he spat, “Send me a full written proposal, a command itinerary report, an outline of all the projects ongoing at HAWC, a staffing and budget proposal, and your full medical report and summary from the attending physicians on my computer regarding their opinions for your suitability for a command nomination. When things calm down I’ll look at it…but I don’t anticipate that happening any time soon.”

Brigadier General Mansour Sattari joined Major General Buzhazi in the minaret tower attached to the mosque of the Khomeini Library. It was just an hour or so before dawn, and the first glow of sunrise was already starting to illuminate the sky. “Are you ever going to let proper lookouts back up here, sir?” he asked him. “We’re not that far away that a good sniper couldn’t get a shot off at you in daylight.”

“I’ve never been in one of these crier’s towers before,” Buzhazi said. He was busy scanning the terrain all around them with a pair of binoculars. Two soldiers accompanied him, one with a sniper rifle. “Have you?”

“No. I’ve been told I have the voice of a muezzin, but I was never that religious.”

“Your voice was made for barking orders, not calling the faithful to prayer.”

“I agree, sir.” Sattari motioned out to the outer walls of the Khomeini Library compound. “There’s no doubt that the Khomeini Library was designed as a fortress,” he observed. “Three-meter tall, meter-thick walls; narrow roads with clear fields of fire and no hiding places; entryways too narrow for most armored vehicles to pass; gates made of thick rolled steel obviously designed for functionality and not just for decoration; and another one-hundred-meter-wide clear zone inside the wall to the main building.”

“It’s not going to be enough, Mansour,” General Buzhazi said. “I reviewed the plans for this place as a young Pasdaran officer. It was designed to withstand riots of faithful mourners, not an armed invasion. You probably don’t remember the riots in this country after Khomeini’s death, do you?”

“I certainly do, sir,” Sattari said, his face turning hard and pallid. “I was already lying low — I had been in the United States in pilot training, but when I returned I denied ever having gone there because foreign-trained officers were being executed by the Pasdaran. I pretended to be an enlisted man for a year! I was in charge of a security detail guarding embassies in the capital, but spent all my time trying to convince the Islamists that I was one of them.” He adopted a faraway expression, then added, “I killed a man to prove to the mob that I was on their side. I think he was Dutch, or Belgian, a reporter — I don’t know, the Europeans all look the same, and the mob thought all white-skinned blue-eyed men were Americans. I was so ashamed of what I did that I almost turned the gun on myself.”

Buzhazi was silent for a long moment, then said woodenly, “I gave orders to my Pasdaran units that probably resulted in thousands of such street executions, Mansour. The more so-called ‘insurgents’ and ‘infidels’ we killed, the more the clerics congratulated us.” He shook his head. “So went the ‘religion of peace.’ I’m sorry for giving those orders. I thought that’s what I was expected to do to support my government.”

“You were following orders.”

“The authorities are supposed to protect the weak. I was a soldier, a commander. I knew what my responsibility was — to protect the people, protect the weak, and defend the constitution, not give in to the bloody mobs.” He paused, then lowered the binoculars, thinking back to that time twenty-five years ago. “That was a crazy time, Mansour. One million rioters in the streets of Tehran. One million. A thousand people a day, mostly children, died just from being suffocated by the crowds. The rioters were like wild animals — completely out of control. The Pasdaran tapped into that fervor and convinced millions of them to sacrifice their lives on the battlefield against the Iraqis.”

“You changed all that by transforming the Basij into a real fighting force.”

“But that’s never going to erase the blood from my hands, Mansour — never.” Buzhazi motioned to the east. “There’s a lot of open territory around those farms along the Qareh River.”

“Yes, sir, but our scouts say there is a lot of irrigation equipment — pipes, pump houses, farm implements, that sort of thing — through those fields that might provide a few barriers to smaller armored vehicles until they are cleared away. That will slow them down.”

“For a short time,” Buzhazi said. He walked around the catwalk and peered north. “The Saveh Mountains are damned close, Mansour — we’ll only have a few seconds of warning when the attack planes crest those ridgelines.”

“I still don’t think they’d bomb the compound, sir,” Sattari insisted. “An infantry assault — definitely. A helicopter assault — yes, to cover the ground troops, perhaps to breach the walls, but not to shoot up the library grounds. That will give us an advantage — they’ll be reluctant to lay down a lot of heavy cover fire.”

“The Pasdaran likes helicopters,” Buzhazi mused in a quiet voice. “The common person can’t relate to a jet screaming overhead at a thousand kilometers an hour no matter how sophisticated it is — but even a small helicopter is a weapon of terror and confusion to everyone.” Just then, Buzhazi’s radio crackled to life, and he listened. “Our scouts in Qom report several armored vehicles destroyed by our booby-traps on the Ali Khani and Masumah bridges in central Qom. The Ali Khani Bridge is heavily damaged and passable by units on foot only; the Masumah Bridge is intact and passable.”

“I’m surprised they decided to use the bridges in the first place — they could have just rolled right across the Musa Sadr,” Sattari said. The city of Qom was bisected by a river that was so dry that large parts of it had been paved over and turned into open space for bazaars, playgrounds, parking lots, and campgrounds for pilgrims visiting the holy sites. “That’ll slow them down a bit while they look for more booby traps, but they won’t be so sloppy around the other bridges.”

“Every little wound, no matter how small, weakens the most fearsome enemy,” Buzhazi said. “Get the lookouts up here and have them feed us constant updates — we have less than an hour before they’ll be in attack range. Let’s get to the map room, build a picture of the Pasdaran’s deployments, and…”

“Warning! Helicopters inbound from the north!” Buzhazi’s radio blared.

“Hopefully just scouts, using low-light TV or infrared to take a look as the main force moves in,” Buzhazi said. He and Sattari quickly scanned the skies. “Two Mi-35 attack helicopters,” he announced. “Staying pretty high. Get out the Strelas and let’s see if we can…” At that moment he saw two bright flashes of light from one of the helicopters. “Get out! Get out!” he screamed, then jumped through the doorway leading to the spiral staircase that threaded down the inside of the minaret. He never let his boots touch the steps, but half-slid, half-tumbled down the stairs as fast as he could. He was being pushed along by someone cascading down the steps even faster than he…

…and seconds later, the darkness was split open by a thunderous explosion, a wave of searing heat, and the force of a thousand pieces of stone being propelled in all directions. Whoever was above Buzhazi was now on top of him, and they cartwheeled down the stairs together until they reached a landing about seven meters from the top.

The minaret was wobbling and shuddering, threatening to shatter apart at any moment, so as soon as he could, Buzhazi grabbed whoever had fallen on top of him and began hauling him down the steps. The tower somehow held as they emerged into the sanctuary adjacent to the mosque.

“Allah akbar! Allah akbar!” Mansour Sattari cried as Buzhazi half-carried, half-dragged him outside and away from the teetering minaret. “They fired a damned missile on us!”

“I’m a damned fool — I believed the Pasdaran still only used handheld weapons on their helicopters,” Buzhazi said. “They’ve obviously upgraded to guided air-to-surface missiles.”

“And I thought they wouldn’t dare attack the mosque,” Sattari said, trying to clear the unbelievably loud ringing in his ears. “I guess we were both wrong.”

Buzhazi raised his walkie-talkie, fighting to get his breathing under control before keying the “TALK” button: “Strela teams one through twenty, prepare to engage, north quadrants, but stay out of sight until they’re within range,” Buzhazi ordered. “Repeat, no one fires until we’re sure the Mi-35s are within range. Report when secure and ready. All other Strela teams, hold your positions.”

Just then a strange voice came through the walkie-talkie: “‘Teams one through twenty?’ How interesting, General.”

Shit, he thought, their frequency was not just being monitored — they were talking on it now as well! “All teams go to Yellow,” Buzhazi ordered.

But he knew that wasn’t going to work — after all, they were fighting fellow Iranians, not foreigners. A few moments after he switched to the secondary frequency, he heard: “Sorry, General, but we know that channel, and we know the third one you have available as well, so you might as well stay on Yellow so you don’t confuse your fellow traitors. So, did you like the fireworks show up in the minaret? You move pretty fast for an old man.”

“I have plenty of surprises in store for you.”

“I’m sure you do, General,” the caller responded. “May I suggest you stop with the claims you have twenty or more Strela launchers — we inventoried all of the missiles you or the other deserters, traitors, and criminals could have possibly stolen, and subtracting those you have already fired, we think you have perhaps a half-dozen remaining. A good diversionary tactic, though. My congratulations on your quick thinking.”

“This sounds like Ali Zolqadr,” Buzhazi radioed back, trying any way he could think of to regain any sort of advantage in the eyes of those who were listening in. “I thought you were running the Pasdaran interrogation centers, torturing and killing honest soldiers just to prove your loyalty to the mullahs.”

“Another good piece of disinformation on an open channel, General,” the man said. This time, however, it wasn’t a complete lie: Ali Zolqadr had been Muhammad Badi’s “wet worker,” supervising the capture — or assassination — of anyone wanted by the state, no matter what nationality or where in the world they might be. He was obviously so good at his job that he had been promoted to deputy commander of the Pasdaran and was now, with Badi’s death, in charge of destroying the insurgency. “Let’s get down to business, General. As you saw, I have full authority from the Supreme Defense Council to take any and all steps necessary to crush this pitiful insurgency.”

“Like firing a missile at a mosque? Aren’t you afraid of burning for eternity in the fires of Hell?”

“This from the man who invaded one of Qom’s holiest sites and are holding a number of clerics hostage,” Zolqadr said. “Your fate is sealed, General, and anything I might do pales in comparison to your crimes. Any destruction of the holy sites or deaths of anyone inside the Khomeini Library will of course be blamed on you.

“I simply want you to realize that I have the capability, authority, and temerity to simply level that building if I so desired. I want to avoid any more bloodshed and desecration. The deaths of your followers would be entirely on your head, and I don’t think you want to spoil their memories by sentencing them to eternal condemnation in the eyes of their fellow citizens. Your leadership skills are legendary, but I don’t think you wished to use your extraordinary skills to lead these men to public and humiliating executions.

“Therefore, my demand is simple: surrender immediately and only you and General Sattari will be held criminally responsible for this uprising. The others will be tried in military courts under jurisdiction of the Ministry of Defense, not the Pasdaran. Only those who have been identified as actually raising a weapon against a fellow Iranian will face capital punishment — all others will face confinement only. All will be dealt with as Iranian soldiers, not as common criminals, with all rights and privileges.”

“Zolqadr, all of my men have been told in no uncertain terms they have the option at any time to turn over their weapon and leave,” Buzhazi radioed back. “The men that marched into this house of lies and corruption did so willingly, knowing that the Pasdaran, the Ministry of Defense, the Supreme Defense Council, and the Council of Guardians would consider them not just criminals but unclean infidels unworthy of Islamic justice under the Koran. They had every opportunity to leave, remove their uniforms, and disappear into the population. Some did just that. The rest stayed, and we will fight.”

“Brave words, General,” Zolqadr said. “Their deaths will be on your head. You have one more chance, General, and then anyone in that place not wearing a Pasdaran uniform will die. I will give you and your men thirty minutes to throw open those gates and come out with your hands on your head, or my men will roll in, slaughter everyone inside, and burn your bodies in a hole in the desert like garbage. To all of General Buzhazi’s men listening to this message, I promise you if you surrender now you will not be harmed. Ignore Buzhazi’s megalomania and come out peacefully. This war is at an end.”

Buzhazi mashed the mike button: “All units, this is General Buzhazi. Any man who wants to surrender, report to the main astan-e in the Khomeini mosque without your weapons. I order that any man who wishes to surrender to the Pasdaran not be harmed. May Allah preserve you — because I guarantee the Pasdaran won’t. You have fifteen minutes to report to the sanctuary. All others, prepare to repel invaders.”

Buzhazi looped the walkie-talkie over his shoulder, and he and Sattari trotted from the mosque across the courtyard to the library. Buzhazi was thankful he didn’t see any men heading the other way toward the mosque. Inside the library, he made his way to the roof, the best place to observe the Pasdaran’s deployment. His staff officers were down behind the front wall of the roof, drawing diagrams of the approaching armored vehicles. He noticed none of his senior staff had departed, although the roof had fewer guards on them than before — and he noticed none of the officers or senior enlisted men had weapons in hand. The thought had crossed his mind that they might save their own skins by killing or arresting him — he was glad that option had apparently not been exercised. “I hope I’m worthy of the loyalty you show me this morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Status report.”

“We count three battalions approaching our position,” the operations officer responded, “one from the northwest, one from the west, and one from the southwest. We can’t see them yet, but we expect a fourth battalion to position itself east to cut off any escape, and the helicopter attack units to come in from the north with a clear field of fire to the south.”

Buzhazi crawled over to the edge of the wall and peeped over the top, with just his binoculars and the top of his helmet protruding above. “Platoons appear to be motor-rifle units in BTR-60s led by one Zulfiqar main battle tank,” he observed. “One or two mortar platoons breaking off from the echelon to set up. I see the battalion headquarters vehicles — looks like they have BMPs, riding right up front, the cocky bastards. They are still marching in echelon at reduced speed, range approximately four kilometers.”

“I think the mines on the bridges got their attention,” Sattari said, laughing. The laughter was a welcome break to the decidedly funereal mood that had descended on the roof.

“Nine BTRs and one Zulfiqar tank per company, still in echelon formation, command vehicles still in the fore. What are they waiting for?”

“Same formation to the southwest, sir,” Sattari reported. “Command vehicles out front, no flank guards, and just a few scouts. They’ll have us surrounded and within a kilometer of the wall in less than thirty minutes.”

“A hundred BTRs, nine tanks, a mortar platoon, and a thousand troops — we have to assume the fourth battalion is waiting to the east,” Buzhazi said.

“It’s only a six to one advantage,” Sattari said. “Normally the Pasdaran doesn’t engage in any battle unless they’re ahead ten to one.” He looked at his commanding general. “I was expecting more. I’m disappointed.” He returned to his scanning, adding under his breath, “We’re still going to get slaughtered, but they could have expended a little more effort to do it.”

“This is a massive operation for the Pasdaran — they’re accustomed to sabotage, kidnapping, sneak-and-peek, and kicking down doors of frightened civilians in the dead of night,” Buzhazi observed.

“The radio chatter between those battalion headquarters vehicles must be fierce,” Sattari said. “They’re spread out too far to see each other or use light signals. If we could only destroy those command vehicles, we might have a chance to stall this offensive.”

Buzhazi thought for a moment — it was obvious he had been thinking the same thing. “There might be a way,” he said.

Sattari looked at his commanding officer’s face and read it immediately. “I thought you said the spirit of the old Basij was dead, sir,” he said.

“Maybe not quite yet, my friend.” He outlined his plan to Sattari, who issued orders right away.

Colonel Ali Zolqadr stepped out of his BMP command vehicle, hands on his hips, and observed the battalion spread out behind him with immense glee. He took a deep breath of already-warm, dry desert air. “A nice morning for a bloodbath, eh, Major?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Zolqadr’s aide, Major Kazem Jahromi, responded. He nervously looked outside the armored personnel carrier.

“Uh…sir, we’re only at three kilometers range to the wall, sir. Perhaps you’d better get back in the vehicle.”

“I’ll be up there in the commander’s cupola before too long, Major, but I wanted to step out onto the field of battle before we start to roll in,” Zolqadr said. “This is my first armored field assault — in fact, I believe I’m leading the first Pasdaran armored assault since the American attacks against us over eleven years ago.” He took another deep breath. “This is where every commander belongs, Major — at the head of his forces, leading the charge. This is definitely where I belong.” He looked at his watch. “How long before their deadline to surrender is up?”

“Just a few minutes now, sir.” A few moments later, from well inside the armored vehicle: “Sir, scouts report trucks coming out of the compound with white flags.”

“How many?”

“Six, sir. Covered five-ton delivery trucks. Two approaching each battalion formation.”

“Six! With…what, twenty men per vehicle? Maybe thirty? Looks like a good percentage of Buzhazi’s rebel forces are deserting him! Excellent news!”

Soon they could see two trucks moving slowly toward them, a white bedsheet tied to the radio antenna serving as their flag of surrender. For the first time he felt a thrill of panic for being at the head of this column of vehicles as the trucks moved closer. “Don’t let the bastards near the battalions!” Zolqadr shouted to his headquarters unit commander. “Stop them well short of the battalions and have them get out of the vehicles one by one. Make sure the men don’t rough them up. Let the others still inside see how well they’ll be treated, and maybe we’ll draw a few more out. Make them all feel welcome — before we execute their traitorous asses.”

“Don’t shoot, Zolqadr,” he heard over his radio. “We’re waving surrender flags. May Allah condemn you and your descendants to eternal damnation if you violate a flag of surrender.”

“It’s Buzhazi!” Zolqadr shouted in glee. He raised his binoculars and, sure enough, saw the general himself driving one of the trucks! “Tell the rest of First Battalion I want Buzhazi alive!” he shouted to his aide. “If he tries anything, disable the truck, but don’t kill Buzhazi!” He picked up his portable radio. “Are you surrendering too, General? How surprisingly wise of you.”

“I’m only doing this to be sure my men who wish to surrender will be treated fairly, as you promised, like Iranian soldiers and not criminals,” Buzhazi radioed. “I intend to return to the library after I drop off these brave men and continue my fight for freedom, and if you try to capture me, the whole world will know what a coward you are.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you live — plenty of chances to kill you or see you hanged in Shahr Park, along with the other criminals,” Zolqadr said. The trucks were too close for binoculars now. “Stop right there and let the men out. I promise they will not be harmed.”

“I want to be close enough to look at you face to face, Colonel,” Buzhazi said. “I want to look you in the eye before I kill you, just like I did to Badi.”

“I said, stop right there, General,” Zolqadr radioed back, “or my men will open fire!” He whirled around and screamed, “Get two BTRs and their dismounts up here and cover those trucks, now!” His aide relayed the order.

Buzhazi’s truck slowed, and at that moment there was a tremendous explosion to the north, followed by a second explosion seconds later. “What was that?” Zolqadr cried. Two massive mushroom clouds of black smoke rose into the sky. “What’s happening?”

“Suicide bombers!” someone screamed. “The trucks are packed with explosives! They’ve destroyed one command vehicle and a tank!”

Zolqadr nearly tripped over his own feet in confusion as he whirled around and returned to his own armored vehicle. “Don’t let them any closer!” he yelled to his aide. “Open fire! Open fire!”

“Look out!” someone cried. “Take cover!”

Zolqadr turned. The two trucks heading toward him had not stopped but had accelerated — they were less than a hundred meters away now! “All units, open fire!” he screamed. “Stop them!” A machine gun immediately opened fire right above his head so close that he thought he had been hit, and he ducked and dodged left around the BMP.

The second truck weaved and dodged as it barreled toward them, and it appeared as if it was going to keep on coming, but soon its engine compartment hood blew open when its engine block was shredded by the twenty-three-millimeter cannon shells. It weaved a few more times, then its front tires were blown out and it half-collapsed, half spun to the ground. “Good shooting!” Zolqadr said. “Do the same to Buzhazi’s truck — try to take him ali…”

And at that instant the second truck detonated, the force of two thousand pounds of high explosives — part of an immense weapons cache found on the grounds of the Khomeini Library, brought in by the Pasdaran when the clerics and politicians from Tehran arrived — bowling over the Pasdaran infantrymen like clay jars hit by a whirlwind. But Buzhazi’s truck was not far away, and the force of the blast knocked the truck completely off its wheels and over onto its right side.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Zolqadr shouted — not just to relay the order but because he couldn’t hear his own voice very well from the ringing in his ears caused by the detonation of the second truck. He drew his sidearm. “I want Buzhazi alive!” He turned to his aide. “Grab a rifle and follow me, Major!” The aide blanched at first by the order and then by the smug, amused expressions of the Pasdaran infantrymen around him; he almost dropped the AK-47 rifle offered him, and he grasped it like it was a snake waiting to bite him.

Zolqadr flinched at the sound of yet another explosion to the south, and the chatter on his portable transceiver told him another BMP command vehicle had been hit. His was the only command vehicle to survive this cowardly attack! Buzhazi was going to pay dearly for this! He aimed his nine-millimeter Zoaf pistol at the driver’s door as he approached. “Buzhazi!” he shouted. “Come out of there! You are my prisoner!”

“Sir, be quiet!” his aide shouted, ignorant of the fact that half the battalion could hear him just as loudly. “He might hear you!”

“I don’t care!” Zolqadr shouted. “I want the great Hesarak Buzhazi to know that I think he is a craven coward to order a suicide bomb attack against the Pasdaran! I hope to personally pull the lever to drop you in the gallows, you worthless piece of shit! Can you hear me, Buzhazi? Your attack has failed, and now I’m going to execute each and every survivor in that library, and I’m going to have you watch each execution. I’m coming for you!”

Zolqadr jumped up onto the truck and pulled open the driver’s door. He saw Buzhazi crumpled up against the passenger side door, his head bleeding from a half-dozen wounds, his body covered with soot and broken glass, his hands…

…were repeatedly pressing a switch — and he realized with shock that it was a detonator switch! Had it not malfunctioned, Zolqadr and anyone within fifty meters would’ve been blown into a million pieces! He immediately but carefully climbed off the truck, stepped away from the vehicle as if moving to join his aide, then radioed for men to get Buzhazi out of the stricken truck.

“Your attacks failed, General,” Zolqadr shouted triumphantly as the semi-conscious former chief of staff of the Iranian military was dragged before him. He made sure Buzhazi was awake, then pointed back the fifty meters toward his BMP and the three armored personnel carriers that had moved up to guard it. “See? My battalion is intact, and we have more than enough firepower to…”

At that instant there was a blinding flash of light, several globes of smoke in the sky directly above his command vehicle…and then a massive series of explosions as his BMP and all three BTRs blew apart like firecrackers. The shock waves and the surprise of the sudden attack again knocked them all off their feet. When Zolqadr looked up, he saw several more armored vehicles in his battalion on fire…and the rest turning and racing madly in the opposite direction! Echoes of still more explosions rolled across the ground from the other battalions’ directions. The Pasdaran infantrymen around him didn’t know what to do, until finally they simply ran off toward Qom. Soon only Zolqadr, his aide — frightened into complete immobility — and Buzhazi remained.

“What…in…hell…happened?” Zolqadr muttered. He turned to Buzhazi, his face a contorted mask of fear, confusion, and blinding rage. “What did you do, Buzhazi?” But the general was in absolutely no condition to respond. Zolqadr drew his pistol and aimed it at Buzhazi’s left temple. “Answer me, you traitorous piece of filth! What happened here? Whose work is this? Who are you working with?”

“The…devil,” moaned Buzhazi. “Or maybe the angel of death. Let’s go visit her together, Zolqadr.”

“I’ve changed my mind, Buzhazi,” Zolqadr cried. “I’m not going to turn you over for a public trial and execution — I’m going to kill you right here, right now, for what you’ve done!” Zolqadr grasped Buzhazi’s jacket, pulled him up off the ground, pressed the muzzle of his pistol against his head…

…and suddenly there was a dark blur of motion. The Zoaf pistol was snatched out of his hand, and Zolqadr was sent flying backward by an iron-like blunt object as if he had been hit by a speeding car. Dazed and with his breath knocked out of his lungs, he struggled to a sitting position and looked up…

…and saw two figures standing over Buzhazi, clad in dark gray outfits. Their arms, legs, and torsos were covered in some kind of structural framework; they wore thick belts around their waists, large fairings on their shoulders and calves, very largecaliber long weapons resembling oversized sniper’s rifles, and large bullet-shaped helmets that completely covered their heads, necks, and shoulders. One figure stood guard, aiming his rifle toward the battalion, while the other attended to Buzhazi.

“Who are you?” Zolqadr shouted. “Who are you?”

The figure with Buzhazi turned to look at the Pasdaran colonel. “Be quiet,” the figure said in some sort of electronic voice in Farsi. “This battle is over.”

Zolqadr heard a creak and rattle of heavy metal, looked to the west, and smiled. “Not quite, my friend,” he said. The figure looked around. One of the Zulfiqar main battle tanks was racing across the desert toward them. Zolqadr started to half-crawl, half-stumble backward as the tank’s coaxial machine gun opened fire, and the ground erupted into hundreds of bursts of smoke as the shells hit home. “Looks like your battle is over, bastards!”

But when the shooting paused, Zolqadr was shocked to see…the two figures still standing! They had been directly hit by twenty-three-millimeter cannon fire and were still in one piece! Then, the second figure calmly raised his big rifle and fired. There was no recoil and no sound, just a laser-straight line of orange-red fire. The round looked as if it had missed the tank because Zolqadr could see the orange-red line go right past the tank as if the tank was nothing but a desert mirage…but the tank suddenly shuddered to a halt as if its driver jammed on the brakes. Seconds later smoke began billowing from the tank, and moments later fire was billowing from several blow-out ports and through melting steel.

“Who are you?” Zolqadr screamed. But the two figures ignored him. The first picked up Buzhazi as easily as if he was a doll and headed toward the Khomeini Library, while the second covered their retreat with the big tank-killing weapon, swiveling it in all directions as if it was weightless as well.

The big figure with the large, unidentified rifle said, “Salam aleikom. Have a nice day, sir,” in Farsi to the dazed and confused Pasdaran commander as he walked by.

The cheering inside the Khomeini Library could be heard from half a kilometer away as the two strange figures approached. Men came running out to join their leader. The first gray-clad figure put him down on the ground just inside the walls. “Are you alive, Buzhazi?” he said in Farsi through his electronic speakers.

“Yes, thanks to you,” Buzhazi said weakly, still dazed but able to rise up on one knee, then motioning for his men to pull him to his feet. He noticed two more similarly clad and equipped figures entering the compound. “I think I recognize you.”

The first figure ignored Buzhazi and turned to the others. “Report,” he ordered in English.

“The northwest battalion scattered,” another figure responded. “No further contact with them. We downed two Mi-35 Hind attack helicopters attacking from the north; three more turned away toward Qom. Systems reporting sixty-three percent and thirty-five percent ammo.”

“The southwest battalion departed as well,” another reported. “They have reassembled near the city center about seven klicks away and they are reporting the situation to their headquarters. I count a force of six APCs and one T-72-sized main battle tank. We’re at fifty percent power and thirty percent ammo.”

“Very well. The west battalion has left the area but appears to be rendezvousing with the southwest survivors,” the first figure said. “They had five APCs and a number of men on foot. I still have contact with the mortar team that set up — they’re still in place but I haven’t detected any rounds headed our way, yet. We can expect some sort of counterattack or probe shortly. Me and the sergeant major are at fifty-seven percent power and seventy percent ammo left. All of you, stop wasting your ammunition. Those aren’t machine guns you’re firing.”

“You are Americans, the so-called Air Battle Force ground units, the ones who helped the Sanusi liberate Libya,” Buzhazi said.

The first figure handed his rifle over to his comrade, then quickly removed his helmet, revealing the angry face of a rather young black man. He stepped over to Buzhazi and grasped him by his jacket, pulling him toward him until they were face to face. Buzhazi’s men moved as if they were going to help him, but backed away when the other armored figures shifted their weapons to a more threatening port-arms position. “I’ll tell you who I am, Buzhazi,” the black man spat. “I’m the guy who swore if I ever found you alive I’d twist your head right off your shoulders with my bare hands, orders or no orders to the contrary.”

“Briggs,” Buzhazi gasped. “Harold Briggs, the American commando and leader of the Tin Men. I thought so.” Hal’s face was a mask of pure rage. “You still mourn your woman, even though she died as a spy serving her people, trying to assassinate me.”

“Go ahead, Buzhazi. Say one more word to me. Give me a reason to rip you limb from limb.”

“Sir, let’s get the hell out of here,” the second figure said.

Briggs tossed Buzhazi out of his hands and into the arms of his men surrounding him. “The message is, General,” Briggs said, “that you asked for our help, and you got it. If it was up to me, I’d shove you headfirst into the sand up to your ankles and call it self-defense. But General McLanahan seems to think you have the ability to turn this country around. Personally I think he’s insane, but he thinks differently.”

“Tell him thank-you from my men and myself.”

“He can hear everything you say and has been monitoring this battle, and he will continue to monitor what you’re doing from now on,” Briggs said. Buzhazi’s eyes drifted up to the sky as if he was searching for the eyes watching them. “He convinced a lot of very powerful people that you were going to bring down the theocratic regime and help stabilize the region. If he’s found wrong, he will be extremely embarrassed, and I will take great pleasure in removing the source of that embarrassment — you.”

“He shall have no fear — the theocracy will die, or I shall,” Buzhazi said. “Iran is done sponsoring death and destruction in the name of the religion of peace. If I am successful, I shall pursue peace with the rest of the world — Arab, Westerner, Zionist, Asian, and European, as well as Persian, I swear it. Again, I thank you for your help.”

“We’re done helping you, General — we’re outta here,” Briggs said. “Your promises don’t mean shit to me — only your actions matter. Make sure no one tries to follow us east of this place, or we’ll come back and finish the Pasdaran’s job.”

“No one will follow you, I swear.”

“Better pray that’s so, General. If you have any friends in the regular armed forces who aren’t friends with the clerics, I suggest you give them a call and get them out here to give you a hand against any other Pasdaran forces who might try a counterattack. And I’ve got one more promise for you, General: The next time I come back here, it’ll be to finish the job — on you.” With that, the four figures ran off, and in the blink of an eye were gone — last seen jumping over the walls of the compound and bounding across the farmlands to the east.

“Those were the American armored commandos you called, sir?” Mansour Sattari asked breathlessly. “But that is impossible! You called them just last night! How could they have gotten out here so quickly?”

Buzhazi stood dumbstruck for a few moments, then shook himself out of his shock and smiled. “I would imagine that’s the secret east of here they don’t wish to share,” he said. “No matter. The Americans did the impossible, and they have delivered to us a miracle and turned the tides in our favor. Now it is time to push forward and take the clerical regime down once and for all!”

It took the team thirty-seven minutes to run twenty miles east of the Khomeini Library — they attracted a lot of incredulous stares from farmers and townspeople, and Hal Briggs was sure there were going to be some frantic phone calls to local gendarmerie, but they continued on without any interference. For safety, they changed their main battery packs for fresh ones before moving into the target area — their batteries were almost depleted, and it would not be prudent to have to defend their destination area with spent batteries installed. Eight miles west of the Kavir Buzurg dry salt marsh and three miles north of a smaller dry lake bed, on the very western edge of the Dasht-e Kavir wastelands, they came across a stretch of paved construction highway in the center of a narrow valley. There were dozens of natural gas wells along the road, and Hal remembered passing a large industrial complex several miles back that had to be the natural gas processing plant for these wells.

In the center of the highway, just east of a bend, sat their objective: an XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, the “magic carpet” that took them from Dreamland to north-central Iran in less than two hours.

“I was starting to get worried, sir,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble said as the four Tin Men approached.

“We radioed you we were on our way,” Hal said.

“Not about you, sir — I was worried we’d miss lunch back at the Lake,” Boomer deadpanned. “Sounds like it went well.”

“We got lucky, Boomer,” Hal said.

“That Iranian commander sure has balls of steel, eh, General? Not one, not two, but six truck bombs — and he decides he’s going to drive one of them? Gutsy.”

“The man’s a coward, Captain,” Hal said acidly. “He probably said he’d drive one because he’d rather die in a blaze of glory than be tortured or killed by the same bastards he trained to torture and kill.”

“Still, you gotta admit his timing couldn’t have been better. He initiates his attack just before the Pasdaran forms up to attack, and right when you…”

“You want to go back there and give him a big wet sloppy one, Captain, go right ahead,” Briggs snapped. “Otherwise, let’s mount up and get the hell out here. Briggs to McLanahan.”

“I’ve been listening, Hal,” Patrick responded via their subcutaneous global transceiver system. “Good job. We see a possible sign of pursuit — several small vehicles heading your way, about fifteen minutes out. No general defense alert yet, just a lot of confused radio traffic from your area, but I expect they’ll issue a nationwide mobilization order soon. The regular military’s got to get involved sooner or later.”

“We’ll be out of here in ten, if only your boy Noble would just shut his face for a second,” Hal said.

After taking one more security scan of the area to be sure there was no pursuit, the four commandos climbed inside the passenger module in the Black Stallion’s cargo bay. Boomer and his copilot started the engines, and in less than ten minutes they were racing down the highway-turned-airstrip and airborne.

“Just airborne, and we’re already close to emergency fuel,” said the Black Stallion’s copilot. The spacecraft flew east, but only long enough to just clear the Alborz Mountain range on the coast of the Caspian Sea, then they headed north, not more than sixty miles east of Tehran.

“No such thing as ‘emergency fuel’ on this flight, Dr. Page — there’s no friendly place to abort to within range,” Boomer said. “We either reach the tanker or we jettison the passenger module, then punch out.”

“Hey, I signed for this aircraft — no one is ‘punching’ or ‘jettisoning’ anything,” the copilot, Ann Page, said.

“I second the senator’s remark,” Hal Briggs said.

“I told you boys to call me ‘Ann,’” Page said. “Remember it’s costing you a shot of top-shelf tequila at the Bellagio every time you call me something other than ‘Ann.’”

“Crossing the coastline now,” Boomer said. “The computer will start the pre-contact checklist automatically when we’re within fifty miles of the tanker’s Mode Four transponder. You can follow along on the MFD if you’d like; the checklist routine will prompt you when you come to a check and response step.”

“Computers running checklists…what is the world coming to?” Ann mused. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel naked without a library full of paper checklists in a cubby around me.”

“You’ll get over it, ma’am,” Boomer said.

“You owe me another shot of tequila when we get home, Boomer — that’s the fifth time you’ve called me ‘ma’am’ on this flight,” Ann said. “By the time we’re back on the ground, I won’t have to buy myself another drink long past I retire.”

“Double or nothing if I plug the tanker on the first try,” Boomer said.

“You’re on — and no using any computers,” Ann said, laughing. She found it incredibly easy to relax with this crew. Although she sounded like a rookie, Ann Page actually had more miles in space than anyone on board the Black Stallion — in fact, she had three times as many miles in space as all of the men and women who wore astronaut’s wings in the U.S. armed services combined.

A native of Springfield, Missouri but a Navy brat who had traveled the world with her father, a nuclear guided missile cruiser skipper who had lost his life in a battle with the Russians in the Persian Gulf over a decade ago, Ann Page had never served in the military but had always been considered just as much a part of the armed forces as anyone who wore a uniform. Thin and athletic, with large green eyes and auburn hair she was unabashedly letting turn gray, Ann could have easily been confused with any female senior general officer — and in fact she was regularly treated as such by military and civilian leaders who knew her.

After receiving several degrees in physics, aeronautical and electrical engineering, and astronautics, Ann became the chief engineer and project manager of the most ambitious and topsecret defense program ever devised: Skybolt, a space-based laser weapon system, installed on Armstrong Space Station, America’s first military space station. Originally designed for the SpaceBased Radar system for the U.S. Air Force, Armstrong Space Station — nicknamed the “Silver Tower” because of its special silvery coating to protect itself from enemy laser attacks — with its two large electronically scanned radar arrays three times as big as a football field had been expanded and transformed from an unmanned radar array to a manned military space station.

Armstrong and Skybolt’s involvement in a Russian invasion of Iran over a decade earlier was crucial, and Ann Page and the station’s firebrand commander, Air Force Brigadier-General Jason Saint-Michael, became instant heroes. But the political controversy that arose over the offensive use of Skybolt — it proved to be just as effective as an anti-aircraft and anti-ship weapon as it was a defensive anti-ballistic missile weapon — became too much of a foreign affairs liability for the American administration. Skybolt was canceled, and Armstrong Space Station was converted once again to an unmanned orbiting platform, with only occasional maintenance visits made.

But the end of Skybolt didn’t mean the end of Ann Page. She continued to work on a variety of military, government, and even private space projects, becoming universally acknowledged as the Burt Rutan of space travel — any innovation, any new spacecraft, any risky or dangerous mission, and Ann Page was flying it. At the age of forty-eight she was elected to the U.S. Senate from California on a pro-military, pro-space exploration, and strong science education platform, even flying several times in space as a sitting U.S. senator, making speeches to Congress and doing TV talk shows and educational broadcasts to schools from space.

When the United States was hit in a sneak attack by the Russian Air Force and over a dozen air and missile bases had been destroyed, Ann Page decided not to run for re-election, and she disappeared from the world stage. What she actually did was join the U.S. Air Force as a civilian space systems designer and engineer, helping to build the next generation of space-based offensive and defensive weapons to help the United States defend itself better from another sneak attack. She was director of a secret program out of Los Angeles Air Force Base that sought to rebuild and redeploy the Skybolt space-based laser system when Patrick McLanahan asked her to join the Black Stallion program at Dreamland.

As compartmentalized as the Black Stallion project was, she had never heard of it before — but when she did, she instantly agreed to join. She had been involved with the America hypersonic space transportation system years ago, a combination scramjet-rocket-powered craft three times larger than the Black Stallion but with almost the same limited cargo capacity. Rapid and flexible access to space was the biggest challenge with working and defending space, Ann knew, and now they seemed to have the answer: the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. Not only were two of this beautiful little aircraft actually flying, but she had been asked to be in charge of building and standing up the first air wing of these amazing spaceplanes.

Needless to say, she jumped at the chance to work with McLanahan and the XR-A9—not knowing that her first mission was just days later, where she would have to fly into harm’s way. But she was in heaven — back in space, where she belonged, leading a brave bunch of airmen in a race to defend the United States of America, just like before aboard Silver Tower.

Ann heard a soft beep in her helmet and scanned the large supercockpit multi-function display for whatever the ship’s computer was trying to tell her. “Is that the tanker?”

“Yep. Acknowledge the alert…that’s it, hit the F-ten button…you got it, and that’s the computer running the pre-contact checklist,” Boomer said. “Step twenty-one is the first crew-response item. F-ten again to go back to the main…” But another beep stopped him short. “Okay, looks like the computer is telling us that our fuel status is outside the safe contact parameters.”

“Which means…?”

“We’re within five minutes of flame-out by the time we reach the pre-planned contact point, which means we’re in deep shit unless we do something,” Boomer said. “Okay. I don’t think there’s time to send a text message to the tanker, so let’s go ahead and break radio silence, use the encrypted UHF radio, and get the tanker over here now. Hit F-three for the comm panel…” But Ann had already switched over to the proper display. “Aha, good, a fast study. You’ve got the number one radio.”

“Sunshine to Mailman,” Ann radioed.

“Check switches,” came the reply on the channel, a warning that she was broadcasting in the clear on an open frequency.

“You need to give them the code-word for…”

“Screw that, Boomer,” Ann said. On the radio again she said, “Mailman, just put the pedal to the metal and get the hell down here now ’cuz we’re skosh on gas. You copy?”

There was a slight pause; then: “We copy, Sunshine. Pushing it up.” Within five minutes, the fuel warning went away as the tanker accelerated and the rendezvous point moved farther south. Once the two aircraft were twenty-five miles apart, the KC-77 tanker started a left turn heading north along the center of the Caspian Sea, rolling out precisely in front and a thousand feet above the Black Stallion in a picture-perfect point-parallel rendezvous.

“Genesis to Sunshine,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.

“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Genesis.”

“Just a reminder: don’t zoom past the tanker on this one,” Patrick McLanahan said. “You’ll have one chance to plug him.”

“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.

“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”

“Roger that.”

The faster rejoin and precision maneuver was sorely needed, because as the refueling nozzle made contact with the XR-A9’s receptacle, the “FUEL CRITICAL” indication sounded again — they had less than ten minutes’ worth of fuel remaining. “Mailman has contact,” Boomer and Ann heard through the boom intercom.

“Sunshine has contact and shows fuel flow,” Ann acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys. Drinks are on me back home.”

“We’re a Cabernet crew, ma’am,” the tanker pilot said.

“The copilot doesn’t like being called ‘ma’am,’” Boomer said. “Now you owe her a shot.”

“The tanker crew’s money’s no good in any bar I’m sitting in,” Ann said. “Just keep the gas coming.”

Hunter Noble rejoined with the tanker once more to top off, turned east over the Caspian Sea, and blasted the Black Stallion over Kazakhstan.

“Boomer, I’m altering your flight plan for your return,” Patrick radioed. “Instead of heading southeast and doing two orbits to line up for landing back at Dreamland, I’m going to have you go north direct for home. I want the Black Stallion turned and ready for another mission ASAP.”

“Fine with me, sir,” the aircraft commander replied. He called up the flight plan being datalinked to his flight control computers and made sure it was being properly received and processed.

“You sure you want to do this, General?” Ann Page asked. “This takes us directly over Russia. We’re only at forty thousand feet now. According to the flight plan we’ll still be below one hundred K and Mach five when we cross the border.”

“I know — that’s well within the lethal envelope of Russian SAMS,” Patrick said. “There’s only one known SA-12B brigade in our flight path, near Omsk. You’ll be at one hundred sixty K altitude and Mach five point one and accelerating when you get close to the known missile batteries. Missile flight time is at least ninety seconds. With that much time you should be out of the missile’s envelope by the time it reaches you.”

Boomer looked at the rear-view monitor in the cockpit and saw Ann Page looking at him through the camera, the doubt evident in both their eyes. “Cutting it awfully close, aren’t you, General?” she asked.

“The problem is initiating the return over Kazakhstan and the lack of secure recovery bases in the north,” Patrick responded. Many of the military air bases in Alaska, Washington State, Montana, Wyoming, and North Dakota were destroyed by the Russian Air Force four years earlier — it would be many years, possibly even decades, before they were inhabitable again. “Flying south over safer territory means an extra orbit, which reduces your reserves, which means bringing you down early at a civilian airfield near Seattle, Vancouver, or Calgary. I’ll do it if necessary, but I’d like to have you land at a military base if possible.

“My calculations show you’ll be out of the SA-12 envelope by the time the missile reaches you — it’ll be close, but you’ll be out,” Patrick went on. “If they fire the less-capable A-model missile or don’t react very quickly you’ll be even safer, but you’ll be OK even going against the B-model SA-12 fired within seconds of coming in range. As always, the final decision is up to you guys. I’ve already put you through a lot on this mission.”

“I’ll say,” Boomer muttered on intercom.

“Unfortunately, you only have a few more seconds to decide,” Patrick said.

“Figures.” He clicked on the radio: “Stand by, General.” He looked at the rear cockpit monitor again into his mission commander’s eyes. “What do you say, Ann?” he asked on intercom.

“I know McLanahan by reputation only — he hired me to help with the program just a few days ago, and I’ve only met with him twice,” she said. “I know he has a reputation of doing what he thinks best, which is not necessarily what his superior officers want.”

“Checks.”

“But he also has a reputation of getting the job done and looking out for the men and women under him. I know everybody blames him for inciting the Russians to attack us and kill thousands of people, but I believe it was because Gryzlov was a nutcase, not because of what McLanahan did, which was protecting his forces from another attack.”

“I don’t know much about what McLanahan did to piss off Gryzlov,” Boomer admitted, “but I do know that McLanahan kicked the Russians’ butt pretty good afterward. He knows what he’s doing. And he’s definitely not a glory-hound. I’ve seen the man’s office in the White House — the janitor has a nicer work environment.”

“So you trust him.”

“I trust him.”

“Same here.”

“Maybe they’ll write that on our headstones, huh?” Ann did not respond. “General Briggs? What do you say, sir?”

“We’re just passengers back here, Captain,” Hal Briggs replied. “Whatever you do is fine with us.”

“Not on my ship it’s not,” Boomer said. “Everyone gets a say.”

“I’m all for getting home earlier,” Briggs said. “I’ve put my life in General McLanahan’s hands for most of my military career, and he’s never let me down yet. I don’t think he will this time either.”

“The rest of you guys agree?”

“Affirmative, sir,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl replied immediately. The other Tin Men responded likewise.

“We who are about to fry salute you, General McLanahan,” Boomer deadpanned. He clicked open the radio channel: “We’re ready to activate the new flight plan, sir.”

“Very good. See you back at the barn. Good luck.”

“I wish he hadn’t said that last thing,” Boomer muttered. He recalled the flight plan and pressed the “ACTIVATE” soft button on his multi-function display. The flight control computer immediately entered the countdown for igniting the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System, and he and Ann had to scramble to complete the pre-programmed countdown holds on time before their flight path window closed on them. Within seconds the engines rumbled to life, and they accelerated quickly and blasted skyward at a very steep climb angle. At Mach three and sixty thousand feet, the computer altered course, and they headed almost directly north toward the Russian border.

“Unidentified aircraft, unidentified aircraft, one hundred and fifty kilometers south of Omsk, this is Russian air defense sector headquarters,” they heard moments later. “Warning, you are entering the Russian air defense identification zone. Respond immediately on any emergency frequency.”

“Not too late to turn around,” Ann said.

“In four seconds it will be,” Boomer said. “Suborbital burn commencing in three…two…one…” Seconds later the airspeed indicator clicked past Mach four, and the three remaining LPDRS engines kicked on.

“Warning, warning, warning, unidentified aircraft approaching Omsk, you are in violation of Russian sovereign airspace,” the warning messages on all of the emergency channels declared. “Turn right and reverse course immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning. Acknowledge on any emergency frequency. Over.” The messages continued in Russian and Chinese, then repeated.

Moments later the threat warning receiver announced, “Warning, warning, air defense search radar locked on, three o’clock, one hundred miles, SA-12…warning, warning, missile tracking detected, SA-12, four o’clock, eighty miles…warning, warning, missile launch, SA-12, five o’clock, seventy-five miles…”

“Pedal to the metal, Boomer,” Ann Page said.

“Eat my exhaust, Russkies,” Boomer said confidently — but he did keep a close watch on both the airspeed readouts and the threat display.

“We’re right on the edge of its envelope,” Ann Page said. “We should be able to fly away from it here in a second.”

Sure enough, a few moments later: “Warning, warning, missile tracking, SA-12, six o’clock, eighty miles…warning, missile tracking, SA-12, one hundred miles…” Finally, as the Black Stallion continued its climb and gradual acceleration, the warning indications went away.

“Never outran a Russian SAM before!” Boomer exclaimed. “Incredible!”

“The hotline is already heating up,” Patrick McLanahan radioed a few minutes later. “Russia is already complaining about your overflight.”

“Do we care today, sir?” Boomer asked.

“Not particularly.”

Boomer took the spaceplane right up to three hundred and sixty thousand feet, above most of the atmosphere, then throttled back and stabilized the airspeed at Mach nine. “We’ll start the descent in eighty-three minutes, everyone,” he said. “Check your oxygen, check your buddy, and report in when the station check’s done.”

“Everyone’s good back here,” Hal Briggs said from inside the passenger module. “We had to wake ‘the Kid’ up to do his safety check — the guy can sleep in the middle of a typhoon. The Kid,” U.S. Army First Lieutenant Russ Marz, was the Battle Force ground ops team’s newest and youngest member, and Hal had taken “The Kid” under his wing — probably, Patrick had surmised, because he was very much like Hal himself when he was twenty years younger.

The time went quickly. In less than an hour they had crossed the entire width of Russia and the Arctic Ocean, and the coast of North America was in sight a few minutes later. “The computer has started the pre-descent checklist, everyone,” Boomer announced. “We’re going to do a one point five G descent profile this time instead of three so NORAD won’t think we’re another Russian cruise missile sneak attack, and I’d like to keep the belly cool in case we have to do a quick-turn and launch again. Keep ahead of the plane and G-forces and sing out in case you’re having any problems. I’d like you all to…”

Suddenly the threat warning receiver blared, “Warning, warning, target tracking radar, two o’clock, one thousand three hundred fifty miles.”

“What did it say?” Boomer remarked. “I’ve never heard of any radar tracking at that kind of…”

“Warning, warning, warning, laser spike, laser spike…warning, warning, warning, emergency cooling circuit activated…warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station three hundred…warning, spot hull temperature increasing, station three-eighty…warning, warning, warning, hull temperature reaching critical, station four-twenty…”

“What in heck is going on?” Ann Page asked.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to melt here in a second,” Boomer said. He immediately disconnected the autopilot and rolled the Black Stallion hard left using the control thrusters.

“What are you doing, Boomer?”

“We’re getting a sudden uneven heating of a small section of the fuselage,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I need to expose a different part of the fuselage to whatever that heat source is and give the emergency cooling system a chance to bring the temps down, or it’ll fail. General, are you reading this?”

“Just keep turning, Boomer,” Patrick McLanahan radioed. “Don’t stop maneuvering. We’re analyzing the information now.” And then they heard him say under his breath, “My God, I don’t believe it. They couldn’t possibly have done it…”

“Warning, warning, laser spike, laser spike…warning, warning, spot hull temperature rising, station…warning, warning, hull temperature reaching critical, station one-forty…”

“Boomer! Keep rolling!” Patrick radioed frantically. “As hard as you can! Don’t worry about depleting thruster fuel now! Move!” Boomer rolled the spaceplane hard to the right, nearly going inverted…

…and then he saw it — a bright orange-blue dot on the horizon with the familiar shimmering three-dimensional texture of collimated laser light. “We’re being hit by a laser — a big mother laser hot enough to almost burn through our heat shields!” he shouted. At that instant, it winked out. “Did you see that, Ann?”

“No — I was too busy praying we wouldn’t turn into a shooting star.”

“We saw it down here, Boomer,” Patrick said. “It’s something I prayed we’d never see again…but it’s back, and it’s operational.”