Strike Force

CHAPTER 3

A flight of three Mi-35 attack helicopters swooped in from the west in perfect formation. As two helicopters hovered and took up a protective position, the third landed just a hundred meters from the outer wall of the Ruhollah Khomeini Library and shut down its engines. A general officer and three bodyguards stepped out moments later. They carefully surveyed the outer walls of the library compound; then, one of the bodyguards made a radio call, and the two hovering attack helicopters moved away and out of sight.

As the general waited, a captured armored personnel carrier emerged from the library compound and drove out to him. The general’s bodyguards had assault rifles and grenade launchers at the ready, but the general did not try to take cover, standing defiantly, almost impatiently, fists on his hips.

Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi emerged from the APC with Mansour Sattari and three bodyguards of his own surrounding him. He saluted the newcomer, and the general returned the salute. Both men were silent for a few long moments; then General Hoseyn Yassini, chief of staff of the Iranian armed forces, said, “Well well, Hesarak, it seems you have been quite busy lately.” Buzhazi said nothing. The officer looked at the men assembled behind Buzhazi, nodding to Sattari. “Hello, Mansour. Quite the daring raid you pulled at Doshan Tappeh. That’ll teach the Pasdaran not to be so cocksure next time, eh? Think you taught them a little lesson?”

“I hope so, sir,” Sattari said, nodding respectfully.

“Unfortunately you didn’t use the opportunity to get out of the country with your hides intact,” Yassini said. “Instead, you decided to throw in with the general’s plan to…” He turned to Buzhazi: “What, Hesarak? What’s the plan? Where do you go from here?”

Buzhazi took a thick packet of files from Sattari and handed them to Yassini. “Copies of the evidence we’ve gathered from Orumiyeh,” he said, “proving that Badi ordered the conspiracy to attack the base and kill Iranian soldiers with Pasdaran forces disguised as Kurdish rebels in order to discredit the Internal Defense Force and further his own political ambitions.”

Yassini took the files but didn’t look at them. Keeping his eyes on Buzhazi, he dropped the files to the ground beside him. “You are too funny, Hesarak,” he said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Are you seriously trying to tell me all this is just you wanting to get back at that worthless piece of walking crap Muhammad Badi for concocting that ridiculous plan to discredit your precious Basij? It was obvious to everyone with half a brain in Tehran what happened in Orumiyeh. Do you expect what’s in that folder to make one bit of difference for what you’ve done in the past few days?”

He shook his head. “Hesarak, you magnificent idiot, if you had just stopped with killing Badi and escaping from Doshan Tappeh, you’d have become a legend in the Iranian military,” he said. “Hundreds of very powerful and influential men would have silently cheered for you, including some who could have pardoned you after a short stay in Anzali Prison. Badi got too powerful and pried into too many personal affairs — you just saved some other poor bastard from having to do the job. You could have even escaped to Syria or Yemen — hell, man, I probably would’ve helped you get out of the country! You’d be living like a prince in charge of some sheikh’s personal security detail.” He looked at the walls of the Khomeini Library compound. “But then you did…this. Strategically clever, I must say. If you were going for maximum shock value to the clerics in Tehran, you couldn’t have picked a better spot. Foolhardy, but clever.”

“‘Shock value’ had nothing to do with it, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “Are you blind, or just preferring to act the obedient, brainless soldier? Don’t you see what the clerical regime has done to our country? The Pasdaran is out of control. There are Pasdaran troops stationed in dozens of countries from Morocco to Malaysia, and they are running al-Quds death squads in every corner of the globe. The Pasdaran has nuclear weapons, long-range ballistic missiles, submarines, and long-range bombers. For what? Some dead cleric’s idea of a global Persian empire? The return of the caliphate? This is the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”

“Listen to you, Hesarak — fretting about empire and caliphates and political intrigue.” Yassini laughed. “Twelve years ago you were the clerics’ toughest supporter. You were ready to take on the United States of America in the Persian Gulf in support of the government — the very same government we have today!”

“I was blind and stupid back then,” Buzhazi said.

“Perhaps — but when they took the opportunity to get support from China, they abandoned your grand plan. That’s what you’re angry about, isn’t it? So which is it, Hesarak — do you truly feel the government is headed in the wrong direction, or do you just want revenge on them?” He waited for an answer; when one wasn’t forthcoming, he went on: “Do you think you’ve changed anything, Hesarak? There’s an interim government already in place, and I guarantee they’ll be tougher and more bloodthirsty than the current ones. I’ve already spoken to the acting president and defense ministers, and they want action.”

“We’ll see what kind of stomach they have for fighting.”

“You’re insane, Hesarak, insane,” Yassini chuckled. “Look, my friend, I think you’ve made your point here. The best thing you can do now is to get out and survive. I don’t know if what you’ve begun will lead to the downfall of the clerics, but alive and in exile in some other country will be better for your supporters and your cause than being dead and forgotten. Take your impressive victories and get out, while you can.”

“What is it you want, Hoseyn?”

“Simple: I want the hostages,” Yassini said.

“Because then you’ll be the hero, their savior, right?”

“What the hell do you care, Hesarak?” Yassini asked perturbedly. He shrugged, then said, “Their precious Pasdaran couldn’t save them — maybe if I lead them out of there and back to Tehran, they’ll think more of the regular armed forces and less of their ideological goon squads, and restore the military to its proper role.”

“So you do believe the Pasdaran is misguided and out of control.”

“I believe in me, Hesarak, and the forces under my command,” Yassini snapped. “Exacting your revenge on the Pasdaran is your battle, not mine. I’m here to protect my country and my government from all enemies, and right now that includes you. If the Pasdaran can’t stop you, it’s my duty to make sure the job gets done.”

Buzhazi nodded, falling silent. The two men looked at each other carefully, sizing up each other’s words and mannerisms. Then Buzhazi said, “Let’s get down to it, Hoseyn.”

“Whatever you say, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “This deal is between you and me. Tehran thinks I’m coming down here tomorrow morning to take personal command of the forces that will pry you out of Qom, dead or alive. I’m here early and without the interim Supreme Defense Council’s notice or authority as a colleague, a fellow soldier of Iran, and someone who has learned and studied under you and now has the opportunity to repay you for your dedicated years of service to our country.

“Let us speak like men and warriors, Hesarak,” Yassini went on, pointing to his right eye, a symbol that he was pledging to tell the truth. “The Pasdaran number approximately one hundred and fifty thousand. You have taken perhaps three percent of that number out of action — an impressive feat, but not nearly enough for your mission to succeed. You and I both know this to be true.

“You may get some regular army soldiers and perhaps even some Pasdaran to join you, but how many? Five thousand? Ten thousand at the very most? Even if you get fifteen thousand to join you, you are still outnumbered almost ten to one. You cannot hope to win, my friend. It is a simple numbers game. The Pasdaran may not be the best infantry fighters in the world, but they don’t have to be — the numbers are against you. You could be the greatest battlefield commander on Iranian soil since Alexander the Great, but even he had a massive army and access to all the supplies his forces needed. You have neither.

“Here is what I propose, Hesarak, and if you were smart and truly cared for the soldiers in that compound, you would accept immediately,” Yassini went on. “You must release the clerics and politicians you hold hostage. That is nonnegotiable. I trust you have not harmed them — they are politicians and may be your ideological adversaries, but they are not combatants. You are too honorable of a soldier to harm unarmed noncombatants.”

“And the second step?”

“There is no second step today, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “Release the hostages to me. As you can see, I have no army behind me — yet. In twelve hours I’ll have one special ops brigade ready to go, with another on the way. By dawn I will present my assault plan to the interim Supreme Defense Council for approval, and shortly after that I will begin to retake the Khomeini Library by force. If you or anyone else still in that compound tries to resist when I come in, I’ll slaughter every last one of you.”

“What about the Pasdaran in Qom?”

“My plan only involves the regular army and air force, not the Pasdaran,” Yassini said. “I think after their earlier debacle they’ll be happy to turn over this operation to the army. They’ll stay away from this part of the province — I can guarantee it.”

“So you don’t like the Pasdaran either,” Buzhazi observed. “You think they’re corrupt and ineffectual, as I do.”

“The Pasdaran will fall because of their own mistakes and blind ideological allegiances, not because I’m fighting them,” Yassini said. “As incompetent as I think they are, I’m not stupid enough to take them on directly, like you.”

“So you’ll simply let us escape?”

“I have no idea what you are doing or where you go, Hesarak, because officially I’m not here,” Yassini said. “All I know is that any of your forces still in that compound by tomorrow afternoon will be either dead or my prisoner.”

Buzhazi was silent for a few moments, then nodded his head. “I understand, Hoseyn,” he said. “I thank you for your fairness and honesty.”

“Don’t thank me, General — just get the hell out of here. Go to France; go to South America; go to Indonesia, I don’t care, but just go. Don’t ever come back. You’re an old man — let the younger men fight. Become their inspirational leader from the comfort of a secure hideout someplace where the Pasdaran or their death squads can’t reach you, or at least you can see them coming. Just don’t set foot in Iran ever again, because if I’m still in charge of the armed forces — which I fully intend to be — I’ll bury your bullet-ridden body so deeply in the desert that it’ll take scientists a millennia to find your bones.”

“I understand your warning, Hoseyn.”

“You’d better do more than that, Hesarak.”

“And I have a word of warning for you, my friend: keep the gates of your bases locked and guarded, and don’t let anyone in — especially Pasdaran,” Buzhazi said. “Don’t go back to Tehran or the Ministry of Defense — I suggest the alternate command center at Mashhad or someplace where Pasdaran forces aren’t heavily concentrated. Whether I’m dead or alive, whoever is in charge of the regular army will be blamed for everything I’ve done. Protect yourselves at all times. Trust no one.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, General — worry about yourself. Get out while you still can. This is my final warning.”

Buzhazi nodded again, then saluted. Yassini shook his head, puzzled and amused by the older officer’s weird schizophrenic personality swings between seemingly sociopathic mania and by-the-book military bearing, but he returned the salute. As Buzhazi turned and started walking to his armored car, he added, “And Hesarak? Remember, don’t harm one hair on those old men’s heads, or all bets are off.” His voice got louder and more strident as Buzhazi continued to walk away. “Understand me, Hesarak? Not one hair mussed up, or they’ll be after both our skins.” But Buzhazi and Sattari returned to their vehicle with their bodyguards and were gone without saying another word.

“Sorry son of a bitch,” Yassini mused. “It’ll be too bad to see that proud old neck stretched at the end of a rope, but that’s what he’s destined for.” He waved for his bodyguards to return to the helicopter. He chased the pilot out of his seat and strapped himself in, preferring not to think of the meeting with Buzhazi but to concentrate on something else for a while — time enough to think about how he was going to get those clerics and politicians out of the Khomeini Library alive once he got back to Mehrabad. Flying was always a good way to help him clear his mind before making tough decisions.

“Do you think he believed you, sir?” Yassini’s aide asked through the helicopter’s intercom.

“I don’t know, but I think so,” the chief of staff said as he prepared to start engines. “It doesn’t matter. If he goes or stays and fights, the status of those hostages is the important factor. If he’s harmed them, the replacement clerics and the Pasdaran survivors will engineer the bloodiest purge in the history of the entire country. That’s why tonight’s raid is important — we need the element of surprise if we have any hopes of saving those men. For our sake as well as the country’s, we need to win this one.”

“Has Buzhazi given any indication he’s harmed them, sir?”

“He’s too honorable to kill unarmed civilians,” Yassini said. “He might use them as bait or bargaining chips for his men, but he won’t kill them. What’s the status of the deployment?”

“Ahead of schedule as of the last report, about a half-hour ago,” the aide responded. “Airborne infantry regiment Avenger is staging at Mehrabad as briefed. They’ll drop three waves of three companies each of paratroopers inside and outside the compound via high-altitude low-opening parachute insertion. The Fifty-first special operations battalion will drop in by helicopter minutes later from Hamadan, followed by the rest of Fifteenth Brigade by armored vehicle and truck. They should be on the move from Esfahan now and will be in position in three hours outside Qom.”

“I want to speak with each brigade commander personally and get assurances that they won’t come anywhere near the compound unless he is dead on force timing,” Yassini said. “Timing is essential. I want five hundred troops to suddenly appear inside that compound in the same room where those hostages are as if they appeared out of thin air. The Fifteenth especially will blow this entire operation if they’re spotted by Buzhazi’s scouts before the rest of the strike force is in position.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll notify the brigade commanders to stand by for a conference.”

Yassini started engines, completed the pre-liftoff checklist, and had just lifted off and pedal-turned the helicopter to the south to pick up a little forward speed when he heard a voice on the Iranian air force’s emergency frequency, which all aircraft constantly monitored: “General Yassini.”

“Is that Buzhazi?” Yassini asked angrily. “What in hell does he want?” He switched over to the emergency channel. “Is that you, Buzhazi? I’m done talking with you. You have my final words. Comply with my instructions or face the consequences.”

“You sounded so impassioned and so reasonable, General — I just wanted to tell you again how impressed I was by your words,” Buzhazi said. “No one else would have ever guessed that you were lying through your teeth the whole time.”

Beads of sweat popped out on Yassini’s forehead, his mouth turned instantly dry, and his finger trembled a bit as he pressed the microphone switch on his control stick: “What are you talking about, Buzhazi?” he radioed back.

“The Avenger regiment, the airborne infantry regiment you secretly deployed to Mehrabad? They won’t be joining you in Qom tonight. Neither will the Fifty-first.”

Yassini set the big Mi-35 helicopter back down on the ground so hard that the crewmembers were bounced several inches off their seats. “Say again, Hesarak?” he asked over the radio.

“We’ve only gained about three thousand men — like you said, Hoseyn, we’re still heavily outnumbered by the Pasdaran,” Buzhazi went on, “but the new recruits are bringing a few Antonov transports, about twelve helicopters, a bunch of armored vehicles, and some supplies with them. A journey of a thousand miles starts with one step, as some Chinese philosopher once said.”

Yassini hurriedly switched to intercom. “Call Tehran and find out what in hell’s going on in Mehrabad!” he ordered. He forced calm into his voice. “I’m warning you, Hesarak,” he said, “that if you attempt to use those traitors to help you escape from the Khomeini Library, a lot of Iranian soldiers are going to die.”

“Don’t worry, Hoseyn — I’m already out of the library,” Buzhazi said. “I left while you were trying to fly your big bad helicopter around out there — you used to be a good stick, but I see your skills have faded. I recommend you don’t try to follow me — we still had a few shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles around.”

“You’re…out?” Yassini gasped. His mind spun furiously; then he turned to his aide and shouted, “Get every man you can find — local police, construction workers, farmers…I don’t care, anyone except the Pasdaran, and get them over to that library compound!” he ordered. “Then call on the discrete command channel and get every available air or infantry unit out here immediately. Do it quickly, but do it quietly. Those Pasdaran units must not know what is happening.” He realized that it was very possible for Buzhazi’s radio broadcasts to be intercepted by the Pasdaran as well, but he hoped the remnants of Zolqadr’s brigade hadn’t had time or thought about organizing an intelligence-gathering detail yet. He turned back to the radio: “Hesarak, what have you done with the hostages? Where are they? Over.”

“Hoseyn, they were nothing but scum, the twisted filthy corrupted dredges of Muslim extremism,” Buzhazi radioed. “Don’t bother trying to put together a rescue mission for them — they’re not worth the effort. I would recommend that you radio your remaining forces and advise them to lock themselves in their garrisons in full protective defensive posture, because the Pasdaran and their al-Quds thugs will be out looking to avenge the clerics on anyone they deem a threat to their continued existence. They’ll hunt down and murder the regular army before you have the chance to stop them, and they’ll claim they’re bringing the guilty to justice.”

“Hesarak…my God, what have you done?”

“Better yet, Hoseyn, come join us,” Buzhazi said. “Don’t wait for the Pasdaran to come hunting for you — join my freedom fighters and help me eliminate those corrupt bloodthirsty warmongers from the face of the planet. It’s the only way to guarantee not only your survival, but the survival of our country and our race. Otherwise, you know as well as I the Pasdaran will not stop until they’ve secured ultimate power for themselves once again.”

Yassini looked back outside the helicopter and saw several vehicles racing in his direction — they did not appear to be Pasdaran, thank God. “Listen to me, Hesarak,” he radioed, “whatever you do, don’t go on a rampage and start a killing spree in this country. The only way to keep this under control is to take command…you and I. Let’s do it together. We’ll take what’s left of the government, weed out the radicals, and start fresh. Let’s meet, Hesarak. Over.”

There was a long pause. Yassini waved at the newcomers, gesturing frantically toward the compound. “Get in there!” he shouted. “Find whoever’s being held captive in there and get them out! Hurry!”

“Hoseyn?”

“Hesarak, meet me”—he thought furiously—“in the Esplanade,” Yassini said. “We need to march off a few. Acknowledge if you understand. Over.”

There was another pause; then: “Here’s my acknowledgement, Hoseyn. Out.”

“Shit!” Yassini cursed. He gestured even more emphatically to the helpers to get inside quicker…

…but he ducked and covered instinctively as four massive, brilliant balls of light erupted from the Khomeini Library, followed moments later by four tremendous explosions that knocked Yassini clear off his feet and set the helicopter rocking on its wheels so violently he thought it might flip upside down. The blasts were followed by strings of smaller explosions. When he looked up, he saw several large mushroom clouds of smoke and fire billowing from the library, with massive columns of flames rolling skyward. It took several minutes for the clouds of smoke and fire to travel vertically instead of in all directions — and when they did, he saw that the entire compound had been leveled, with only blackened and crumpled skeletal outlines of the mosque and library buildings remaining.

“Dave, I need a full analysis of the Kavaznya region — military deployment, infrastructure, construction projects, the works,” Patrick ordered. At that moment, Colonel Martin Tehama, the commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, entered the battle staff area and stood stiffly before Patrick’s console, almost at parade rest. He was wearing his service dress blue uniform, not a utility or short-sleeved service uniform as was customary at Dreamland. “The damned Kavaznya laser just fired on the Black Stallion.”

“I’m already on it, Muck,” Dave Luger, seated beside Patrick, said breathlessly. “My God…how could they have rebuilt that facility without us knowing about it?”

“We thought the Russians were knocked on their asses following our bomber attacks,” Patrick said. “We got too overconfident. Plus we were too concerned about rebuilding our own strategic military forces to watch over them. We never thought of looking at the Russian Far East — we thought they’d be concentrating on shoring up their military forces in the West.”

“You forgot one thing, sir — you were just too damned cocky to pay attention to anything else but your own pet projects,” Tehama interjected acidly.

Dave Luger’s eyes bulged first in surprise, then in sheer anger. “As you were, Colonel!” he snapped.

Patrick showed little reaction to Tehama’s comments. “I heard you got an assignment, Colonel,” he commented.

“I finished outprocessing just now,” Tehama said. “Since you showed up I haven’t had much to do, so I thought I’d put in a few phone calls and redeem a few favors. I report to my new assignment next week.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine…wherever it is you’re going,” Patrick said. He briefly looked up from his console, saw the expression on Tehama’s face, and shook his head. “But you are just dying to tell me something first, aren’t you?”

Tehama glanced quickly at McLanahan, then caged his eyes away again. “I’ll save it for my report to General Edgewater at Materiel Command. But I did want to advise you that I will make it clear that you diverted that Black Stallion flight against all established HAWC directives about overflying hostile territory, and that you did so against my advice and without my authorization.”

“Noted.”

Tehama glanced at McLanahan in disbelief. “General, what’s with you?” he asked finally. “You risked those men’s lives for no reason. I don’t get it.”

“The reason you don’t ‘get it,’ Colonel, is the reason you’re leaving here today.”

“I don’t understand it…I don’t understand you…any of you,” Tehama sputtered. “Do the lives of these men mean so little to you?”

“I don’t think this is the time to discuss this…”

“No, go ahead, General — I’ve got time,” Tehama said. “Explain it to me. It might help me make some sense of the twisted mind-boggling bullshit atmosphere you’ve created in this place and in these people.” He motioned around the room. “What is all this? You have a battle staff area at Dreamland. What’s up with that? We’re a research base, for God’s sake — except the planes are never around long enough to do any research on them because you or someone under you keeps on requisitioning them. Our budget is blown all to hell with your secret operations. Now one of our most classified, highest priority, most expensive aircraft has been hit by a Russian laser, and with good reason — you authorized them to fly over hostile airspace! Do you want to get those men killed?”

“Colonel, if you don’t get it after being here for three years, you never will,” Patrick said. “You’re dismissed.” It was obvious that Tehama really, really wanted to tell Patrick off, but he snapped to attention, then turned on a heel and exited the room.

“Can you believe the balls on that guy, mouthing off like that?” Dave Luger asked.

“There’s only one reason he’d have the guts to do that — his new boss has more than three stars,” Patrick said.

“Hal can find out who that is in no time.”

“It’ll be easier to just assume he’s been reporting on our activities to our biggest opponents…”

“SECDEF and Senator Barbeau, among many others.”

“Might not be enough to get him in legal trouble,” Patrick said, “but enough to fill in the details to any bureaucrat or politician who doesn’t have the entire picture on what we do at Dreamland.” He thought for a moment, then nodded to Dave. “Have Hal find out anyway.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Dave said with a smile.

“Good morning,” White House Press Secretary Anthony Lewars said curtly as he stood before the members of the White House Press Corps in the newly refurbished press briefing room. Unlike many of the recent White House press secretaries who came from the media or public relations, Lewars, a tall, bald, broad-shouldered, mean-looking veteran combat officer, was a former Marine Aircraft Wing commander, and he ran the White House press offices as tightly as he did his combat air units. Although he wore a suit and not a uniform, he still looked every bit the hard-as-nails combat veteran he was. “The President is scheduled to meet with the delegation from the Association of South East Asian Nations in the Oval Office to discuss oil and trade policy, and will then travel to Wilmington, Delaware to address the American Bar Association convention luncheon. He’ll return to the White House sometime this afternoon and meet with several state political delegations to discuss campaign travel schedules. He’ll meet with the national security staff later on this afternoon for a detailed briefing on events in the Middle East. He remains in close contact with his national security staff at all times and receives constant updates.

“The President has been fully briefed on the incident in Qom, Iran, but most of the information the White House has received has been through unverified Middle East news sources,” Lewars went on brusquely. “The President reiterates that his main desire is peace, stability, and democracy in the entire region, and indeed the entire world, and the United States stands ready to assist any group that stands for the very same things.” He made a few brief remarks on several other matters, then closed his briefing folder and offered, “Questions.”

The questions came rapid-fire, but Lewars was accustomed to dealing with lots of panicked, babbling individuals, and he waded through the Q&A with a distracted, almost detached indifference — most times he did not even look at the questioner, but shuffled his notes without expression or gestures. It was a lot like watching grass grow. “Is there a coup taking place in Iran, General?” one reporter blurted out. “Are we going to war?”

“No one’s going to war. We don’t know the details yet. It could be Kurdish rebels, anti-clerical insurgents, or a Sunni Muslim retaliation against the Shi’ite dominated theocratic regime.”

“Does the President want to see the Ahmadad government or the clerical regime fall?”

“I refer you to my earlier remarks,” Lewars said, almost spitting the words. Then, deciding he’d better tell them rather than leaving it up to their powers of recall: “The President wants peace, stability, and democracy. The President doesn’t agree with or endorse the Iranian way of picking candidates for office — basically the Ayatollah Shīrāzemi picks the candidate he wants, and the Council of Guardians rubber-stamps their approval and pulls any other candidates off the ballot. The people have no say. That said, the fact remains that Ahmadad was put in power peacefully and constitutionally, as flawed as their electoral process is.

“As far as a military uprising, rebellion, or whatever might transpire in Iran: again, any such action usually doesn’t contribute to peace, stability, and democracy, and so President Martindale views such violent actions as undesirable for the people of Iran, their neighbors, customers, and other interested persons and powers in the Middle East. The President believes that military coups take power away from the people by force of arms.”

“But if the clerical regime is deposed, even if by force of arms, and is replaced by a regime friendlier to the West…?”

“That’s speculation. We don’t have the facts.” He left that reporter a dark scowl and glanced at another, then resumed taking notes, head down, not making eye contact with anyone. “You. Question.”

“There are reports that the United States sent a special operations team inside Iran to assist the rebellion. Comment, General?”

“That report did not originate within this administration, so I can’t comment on it.”

“So you’re denying it?”

“I said I can’t comment on it.”

“General, ‘no comment’ is not an answer,” the reporter persisted. “I understand if you don’t want to confirm or deny it, but you must have some comment. Either you don’t know or you refuse to say, but you can’t just…”

“Excuse me…Mr. Richland of the Sun, correct?” Lewars said, looking up from his notes and impaling the reporter with a deadly asphalt-melting stare. “Let me make myself crystal clear to you: I don’t have the time or the inclination to comment on rumors, innuendo, guesses, or anything but the Administration’s official statements. If you want to fantasize, go back to writing about endangered snail darters and Alaskan caribou.” He waited for the reporter to say something in return, but the reporter tried to appear busy writing notes and didn’t return Lewars’s glare, so he turned to the other side of the press briefing room. “You. Go.”

“Would President Martindale ever send any military forces into Iran to assist any opposition or insurgent groups take over the clerical regime?”

“Again, I cannot comment on every hypothetical situation thrown at me. However, I can say that in my conversations with the President he has never indicated any willingness or desire to support any military opposition or insurgent groups in Iran. He has expressed his desire for peace, stability, and democracy in all nations of the world who oppress and repress their citizens, and he wants to do anything he can to help those nations fight off their oppressors and build a better society and government for their people. But it must be done pursuant to the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, in the context of a peaceful, democratic framework established by the people, their representatives, and the rule of law. Next.”

“General, the Russian embassy called several media outlets and complained that the United States was illegally flying manned spaceplanes over their sovereign airspace without permission. Any truth to this complaint?”

“We receive hundreds of complaints every day from the Russians ranging from illegal fishing to playing music too loudly at our embassy parties,” Lewars said, again without looking up and without any change or inflection in his voice — but unseen was the sweat prickling out around his collar. “No matter how many trivial or just plain bogus complaints we get, the State Department fully investigates each and every one.”

“But you’re not denying an illegal overflight took place?”

“Every complaint filed by any person or nation is investigated. When the investigation is over we’ll reveal the results. Until then, we keep quiet about it. Thanks to you good folks in the media, sometimes mere accusations carry the weight of outright guilt if overpublicized. Don’t you agree?”

“Is it the Air Force’s new hypersonic bomber, General? Is the Pentagon overflying Russia with a new bomber?”

“We don’t comment on the movement of any military or government vehicles. Aircraft, spacecraft, and surface vessels of all kinds transit sovereign airspace all the time. The Russians send a dozen spy satellites a day over the United…”

“This is the second such complaint by the Russians this month,” the reporter insisted. “They claim they have proof we are conducting illegal espionage and harassment missions over their country.”

“I haven’t seen their proof or any formal diplomatic protests. Until I do, it’s speculation. Next.”

“General, rumor has been circulating for months about…”

“Wait one, folks,” Lewars interrupted, maintaining his stiff posture and manner and trying like hell to avoid appearing too exasperated. “I know I haven’t been in this job very long, but you should have all realized by now that I won’t answer questions based on speculation, rumor, hypothesis, or conjecture. Are there any questions I can answer on behalf of the President, Vice President, the Cabinet, or the executive branch of government regarding any of the topics that I’ve already briefed?” He waited a couple heartbeats; then: “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be happy to take e-mailed questions and I’ll be available in the press room at the usual hours.” He quickly stepped off the dais as the television reporters moved to the front, ready to give on-air and taped on-camera summaries.

Lewars went to his office, answered a few phone calls, then went to the Oval Office, where the President was already meeting with the members of his national security staff: Vice President Hershel, Secretary of Defense Gardner, Secretary of State Carson, National Security Adviser Sparks, Joint Chiefs Chairman Glenbrook, and Director of Central Intelligence Gerald Vista. Chief of Staff Carl Minden looked up from his tablet PC computer as Lewars entered. “Thought you were going to lose it for a moment, Tony,” he commented.

“I never ‘lose it,’ Mr. Minden,” Lewars said sternly. “If the press corps wants to hear me say ‘I won’t speculate’ a dozen times during these briefings, fine with me. I tried to save them a little time, that’s all.” He turned to the President and added, “They definitely got a strong sniff of the spaceplane overflight, sir, and it won’t take long before the Russians’ claim is substantiated by tracking data from some other country. I need a cover, nonspecific but enough detail to keep their editors happy for a few days. I suggest we tell the press it was an unarmed classified military spacecraft, one of many that routinely transits Russian airspace in accordance with international aviation laws, and leave it at that.”

“We need a ruling from the White House counsel on exactly what the law says about spacecraft overflight,” Carl Minden said.

“An official ruling is fine, but I can tell you what the Outer Space Treaty says: no one can regulate space travel or access to Earth orbit,” National Security Adviser General Jonas Sparks said. “That’s been the case ever since Sputnik. Besides, we have dozens of Russian spy satellites overflying us every damned day.”

“True,” Secretary of State Mary Carson said. She turned to President Martindale and continued, “But sir, that only applies to spacecraft in Earth orbit. If General McLanahan’s men flew the spaceplane through the atmosphere over Russia, that’s a violation.”

“Hell, Doc, we flew spy planes across each other’s borders for decades,” Sparks said. “It was so commonplace, it became a game.”

“And we’re on the path to returning to the Cold War mentality that existed back then,” Carson retorted. “Sir, if we continue to allow General McLanahan and his spaceplanes to just flit across the planet like that without advising anyone, sooner or later someone’s going to mistake it for an intercontinental ballistic missile and fire a real missile. Overflying Russia with a satellite in a mostly fixed and predictable orbit is one thing — having an armed spaceplane suddenly appear on a Russian radar screen out of nowhere could trigger a hostile response. A simple courtesy message on the ‘hotline’ to Moscow or even to the Russian embassy in Washington would be sufficient.”

“Frankly, Mary, I don’t feel very courteous when it comes to the Russians,” the President said.

“I mean, sir, that a simple advisory might prevent an international diplomatic row, a retaliatory overflight, or at worse someone getting nervous and pushing the button to start another attack.”

“Okay, Mary, I get the message,” the President said. He turned to the Secretary of Defense: “Joe, get together with Mary and draft up a directive for General McLanahan and anyone else using the spaceplanes to notify the State Department to issue an advisory to the Russian foreign ministry in a timely manner. That should be sufficiently ambiguous to allow us some leeway in when to report.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Gardner glanced at Carson’s exasperated expression but did not comment.

He could always count on Mary Carson to bring up all the negatives about each and every situation crossing his desk, Martindale thought — her comments always served to head off possible difficulties, even though he generally thought she pressed the panic button too often and too soon to suit him. “It’s not the Russians I’m concerned about right now, folks — it’s the Iranians,” the President said. “Gerald, what do you have?”

“Not much yet, sir,” Director of Central Intelligence Gerald Vista responded. “No one has heard from any of the clerics or most of the executive branch of the Iranian government for days.”

“My office has been trying repeatedly to get a statement from the Iranian U.N. ambassador, but he’s nowhere to be found,” Secretary of State Carson added, “and some of the NATO foreign ministries who still have diplomatic ties with Iran tell us the Iranian ambassadors and consuls have dropped out of sight.”

“Sounds like they’re lying low,” the President observed. “But is Buzhazi the reason, and if he’s powerful enough to scare government officials as far way as New York City, does he have a chance of succeeding in engineering a military coup?” He turned to Joint Chiefs chairman Glenbrook. “What about the Iranian army, General?”

“The latest we have is the regular armed forces are still in their garrisons, sir,” Glenbrook said. “We don’t know if they’re just staying in defensive positions, awaiting orders, or defying orders and not going out to hunt down Buzhazi and his insurgents. A few specialized units have mobilized — we think those units will try an assault on the Khomeini Library in Qom within forty-eight hours.”

“This has been a Pasdaran fight so far,” Vista said. “We haven’t seen any regular army involved. Maybe the Pasdaran has been weakened to the point where they can’t do the job.”

“Is it possible that we haven’t heard from the clerics or the president of Iran that were apparently in Qom…because they’re dead?” Vice President Maureen Hershel asked. She turned to a video teleconference unit on the credenza beside her. “General McLanahan?”

“Unfortunately General Briggs didn’t ask that question when he met up with General Buzhazi at the Khomeini Library in Qom, ma’am,” Patrick McLanahan said from the command center at Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada. Instead of a business suit and tie, he was wearing his trademark Dreamland black flight suit, a wireless earpiece stuck in his left ear, surrounded by his battle staff officers. He hadn’t officially taken over the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center yet, but he was clearly the man in charge. Maureen couldn’t help but smile. Patrick never looked comfortable wearing a business suit or attending meetings in the White House. He was back in his element, where he belonged. “General Briggs’s objective was to degrade the Pasdaran units surrounding the library and make contact with Buzhazi if possible, all without compromising his men or the Black Stallion spaceplane.”

“Is Buzhazi still in Qom?”

“It’s unclear, ma’am,” Patrick replied. “We should be getting a satellite image update soon. General Briggs estimated Buzhazi’s force inside the library at around a thousand men, well-equipped — apparently there was a large weapons cache inside the mosque and library. If they departed, it wouldn’t take them long.”

“You actually think Hesarak Buzhazi would slaughter a bunch of clerics and government officials inside one of the holiest sites in Iran?” the President asked incredulously.

“Back when he was chief of staff and commander of the Pasdaran, I’d say ‘never’—five thousand Americans on an aircraft carrier, yes, but a bunch of power-hungry Muslim clerics, never,” Maureen replied. “But the man was dumped, disgraced, nearly assassinated, and relegated to training half-crazy volunteer fighters. He went from leading the fight for the clerical regime to nothing almost overnight. If anyone’s got an axe to grind against the current regime, it’s him.”

“Let’s say he succeeds,” the President asked. “Would he be worse than the clerical regime, or would he work with us to help stabilize the region — and perhaps even assist the West in stopping the current tide of radical fundamentalist Islamists operating around the world?”

Maureen turned to the speakerphone and said, “The only two Americans who have spoken to him since his insurgency began are Generals Briggs and McLanahan. Patrick? What are your thoughts?”

“He swore up, down, and sideways that he was going to take down the theocracy or die trying, ma’am,” Patrick said. “My initial gut reaction is I don’t trust him, but everything he’s done so far points to one thing: his objective is the destruction of the Pasdaran and elimination of the theocracy. I don’t know if he wants to become the strong-armed dictator of Iran, but if he gets the support of the regular army he could certainly take over.”

“But what are the chances of that?”

“He’s a disgraced military chief of staff who was blamed for Iran’s greatest military defeat in history,” CIA director Vista said. “He tossed away a third of Iran’s navy in just a few days, including the Middle East’s first aircraft carrier. Not only that, but he was commander of the Pasdaran — he gave the orders that resulted in the executions of thousands of regular army soldiers, government officials, and ordinary citizens, usually on skimpy or no evidence whatsoever, on allegations they conspired against the clerical regime. The regular army would never follow him.”

“I disagree, Director Vista,” Patrick radioed. “Because he refused to be exiled — he was given a shit job that should have killed him and he excelled in it. He purged the Basij, the paramilitary group of volunteers, of all the radicals and fundamentalists, and he turned it into a real fighting force — and he did it with pure leadership, convincing the dedicated men and women in the Basij to get rid of the maniacs. He turned the organiation around without resorting to intimidation or violence. The grunts respect that. I think he has a very good reputation with the regular army. Combine all that with the regular army’s hatred of the Pasdaran, and I think Buzhazi is lining himself up very nicely for a coup d’état.”

“My information says otherwise,” Vista insisted. “Buzhazi is an outsider. Besides, the regulars are too afraid of the Pasdaran to support a rebellion, especially one without any other support besides a few thousand volunteers.”

“OK, folks, I need some ideas,” the President said, barely masking his impatience. “Let’s assume Buzhazi survives Qom. What happens next? Gerald?”

“Overall I’d say his odds are terrible, sir,” the CIA chief replied. “He needs the regular army — his little group of Basij fighters can’t survive against the Pasdaran. The Pasdaran is like the U.S. Marine Corps, except much larger with respect to the regular army: while our Marine Corps is one-tenth the size of the army, the Pasdaran is one-third the size of their entire armed forces, and just as well equipped; I would equate Buzhazi’s Basij fighters with a well-trained Army National Guard infantry battalion.”

“I agree with the DCI, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Carson said. “And even if Buzhazi does succeed in destroying or disrupting the Pasdaran with help from the regular army, using some sort of magical leadership ability as General McLanahan describes, he’ll have to contend with other forces as well. Every covert ops and insurgent force the Pasdaran has created over the years will return to Iran to try to topple the junta or at least cause it a lot of trouble: al-Quds in the Gulf region; Hizb’ Allah in Lebanon; Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and the Popular Front to Liberate Palestine-General Command in the Gaza Strip and West Bank; Ansar-al-Islam in Iraq; and Hizb’Islami in Afghanistan, just to name a few. All of those groups are controlled and funded by Iran through the Pasdaran, and they’d undoubtedly be brought back to assist in a wide-ranging insurgency against Buzhazi. We could even see pro-Iranian military or terror groups from Chechnya, Pakistan, or North Korea fighting against Buzhazi. Then of course there is the one-third of Iran’s citizens, about twenty million adults, who actively support the theocracy and who might support an Islamist insurgency against a secular military regime.”

“Doesn’t sound like a winner to me,” the President said. “Anyone disagree with this analysis?”

The room was quiet…until: “I don’t disagree with Dr. Carson’s or Director Vista’s analysis, sir,” Patrick McLanahan said through the videoconference link, “but if Buzhazi survives and is actively trying to stage a coup in Iran with the help of the regular army, we should do everything possible to support him.”

“Support him?” Carson asked incredulously. “If I remember correctly, he tried to kill you and your men several times. Now you want to risk your life to help him?”

“We may never get another chance for years,” Patrick said. “Iran doesn’t hide the fact that it actively supports insurgent groups all around the world who try to topple secular or unfriendly governments in favor of a fundamentalist theocracy — we shouldn’t be afraid to support any movement, even a military coup, that tries to establish a democracy.”

The President shook his head with a sardonic smile. “As usual, a solid consensus about a course of action,” he deadpanned. He slumped in his chair, rubbed his temples wearily, retrieved a bottle of water from a desk drawer, and took a deep sip. “I’d be just as happy to see the two factions tear each other apart,” he said. He finally turned to General Sparks: “Jonas, I asked you to come up with a plan of action for dealing with Iran. Anything yet?”

“No, sir,” Sparks replied. “No real consensus from the intelligence and operations staffs. Buzhazi’s insurgency is just complicating the issue worse and worse every day. We should just continue surveillance, monitor the situation carefully, and be sure to warn the Iranians that we won’t tolerate any foreign offensive operations in the wake of this Buzhazi insurgency.”

The President nodded. “Holding pattern — not exactly what I had in mind,” he said. “Anyone else?”

“Mr. President, in my staff’s opinion, Buzhazi is not the issue — the Iranian Revolutionary Guards and their control of Iran’s weapons of mass destruction and their delivery systems are,” Patrick McLanahan said via the videoconference link. “If the regular Iranian army keeps sitting on the sidelines, the Pasdaran will only turn up the heat even more. Eventually the army will be completely marginalized, maybe even dismantled. Once the Pasdaran takes over, they’ll tear the country apart. Then they’ll start on any other neighboring countries they feel is a threat to the Islamist regime.”

“So what do you propose, Patrick?”

“I’d like permission to launch a dedicated constellation of reconnaissance satellites over Iran to look for their missile sites,” Patrick replied. “I’d like to forward-deploy Air Battle Force air and ground teams to Afghanistan and Uzbekistan, ready to go into Iran covertly and destroy the most dangerous missile batteries. And I’d like permission to place two of our fleet of three Black Stallion spaceplanes in orbit, armed with precision-guided weapons to react in case Iran launches any attacks that we can’t reach. I’ve sent this proposal to Mr. Minden and General Sparks for their review.”

“You’re recommending putting a major strike force over Iran in the middle of their internal crisis?” Secetary of State Carson asked incredulously. “How do you think the Iranians will interpret such an action?”

“I don’t intend for the Iranians to find out, Madame Secretary,” Patrick said, “but if they do, they’ll know we mean business.”

“More gunboat diplomacy,” Carson said irritably. “Makes my job all the more difficult.”

“The Air Battle Force will stay out of Iran unless they lash out against the United States or our allies in the region,” Patrick said. “But once they move, they move swiftly and silently, and even after they engage they leave a very small footprint. If the Iranians never threaten our interests — if they confine their reaction to Buzhazi’s insurgency to their own borders — we never go in. But if they do try to launch missiles or mobilize for large-scale operations, we can hit them in vital spots while our main forces start gearing up.”

“We don’t need McLanahan’s gizmos, sir,” Secretary of Defense Gardner said. “We’ve got one carrier battle group in the Persian Gulf, one in the Arabian Sea, and another in the western Pacific en route to the Indian Ocean. There are twenty-five thousand NATO troops in Afghanistan, a thousand U.S. troops in Uzbekistan, fifty thousand in Iraq, and another fifty thousand ashore and afloat spread between Turkey and Diego Garcia. The Air Battle Force doesn’t and never has integrated with the total force. They’ll just get in the way.”

“But the fact is, Joe, they can send a tremendous force out there in a real hurry,” the President said. “Special Operations Command can send a small force out quickly; the army can send a big force out slowly. McLanahan’s guys can send a big punch anywhere fast.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves here, ladies and gentlemen,” Vice President Hershel said. “Looks to me like we’re letting Buzhazi pull our strings now — he attacks, then we’re forced to act when the Revolutionary Guards counterattack. Buzhazi’s insurgency is an internal Iranian matter. We’d be provoking a serious and unpredictable Iranian response if anyone caught us sending covert military forces in or over Iran. Iran still commands a vital chokepoint in the Persian Gulf and is the most powerful Islamic military force in the entire region. Let’s not get drawn into a fight we don’t want by a disgruntled and disgraced Iranian general.”

“Mr. President, I’ll be happy to look over McLanahan’s plan and give the staff my thoughts,” General Sparks said, “but right now I’d advise against putting armed spacecraft in orbit, no matter how speedy or cool they are.”

“I agree,” Carson interjected. “And double goes for sending McLanahan’s stealth bombers anywhere near Iran. We don’t want to be seen as ratcheting up the tension. If Iran does lash out, they could claim it was our actions that led them to retaliate.”

President Martindale glanced back and forth between the videoconference screen and his advisers in the Oval Office. “I agree that our primary concern should be Iran’s missiles and whether Masoud Ahmadad intends to use them,” the President said after a short silence. “General McLanahan has a plan for dealing with them, so I want the plan vetted right away. Patrick, be prepared to brief the national security staff as soon as the schedule permits. General Sparks and Secretary Gardner will review it and have their comments ready as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carl will find a slot in tomorrow afternoon’s schedule — be ready by then. Thanks, Patrick.” He was about to motion for Minden to disconnect the videophone link, but Minden was taking a message from the White House office assistant. Minden’s expression after he read the message got the President’s full attention. “What now, Carl?”

“Message from Communications, sir,” Minden replied. “The wire services are reporting that Russia intends to file a protest with the United Nations Security Council to halt illegal overflight of American spaceplanes over its territory.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Several members of Congress have called for press conferences within the hour, including Senator Barbeau. General Lewars was right on — the press had wind of this already.”

“General Lewars, draft up a response so we can brief the staff and get a statement out right away,” the President ordered.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“This is starting to smell like a big sewer leak right here in the White House, and I will personally kick his or her butt when I find out who it is.” He turned to the videophone: “Okay, Patrick, out with it. Did your guys overfly Russia? Do the Russians have a legitimate beef?”

“Our crew did overfly Russia, sir, but I don’t think the Russians have a legitimate reason for a protest,” Patrick replied.

“Explain — and this better be good.”

“During its ascent, the spaceplane was lower than one hundred kilometers — about sixty miles — aboveground when it entered Russian airspace. One hundred kilometers is the altitude mentioned in the Outer Space Treaty as to where ‘space,’ and therefore the treaty’s provisions, begin. Russian military air defense operators broadcast a warning on the international emergency frequencies, which we received. When the spaceplane did not alter course it was fired upon by Russian surface-to-air missiles. But the spaceplane was accelerating to suborbital velocity — approximately nine times the speed of sound — and it outran the SAMs.”

“So the crew did violate Russian airspace. Why?”

“I gave the order to do so, sir,” Patrick said. Both the President and the chief of staff nodded — they had already guessed that. “The Black Stallion had four passengers on board — the four Air Battle Force ‘Tin Men’—and I wanted the spaceplane on the ground as soon as possible to prepare it for another mission. The original flight plan had the spaceplane flying in a southeasterly orbital course which would have taken it away from hostile airspace but would have meant keeping them aloft for an extra three hours or longer and would have given the crew no military alternate landing airports. Based on those factors, I uploaded a suborbital flight plan to the crew that took them directly back to Dreamland…”

“Over Russia.”

“Yes, sir. But at all times the spaceplane was accelerating and climbing — it was not descending and decelerating like a warhead or missile would have. The spaceplane was not armed with anything more than hand-carried infantry weapons — it had no weapons of mass destruction or any kind of ground attack weapons of any kind.”

“None of that makes a rat’s ass of difference, General,” Minden snapped. “The press is going to start a shitstorm over this, and Congress is going to jump in with both feet.”

“You’ve done it again, General McLanahan,” Secretary of Defense Gardner said bitterly. “You’re starting to look as bad as Oliver North during Iran-Contra, running your own covert ops agency right out of the White House basement.”

“I authorized the mission over Iran, Joe…with your blessing, reluctant as it was,” the President reminded him.

“I judge the mission to help Buzhazi a success, sir,” Gardner said. “Unfortunately, General McLanahan’s decision to send the spaceplane back over Russia will quite possibly erase all the good his crew did. This is going to kill the Black Stallion project for sure.” He turned to the President and added, “I recommend we ground the Black Stallion project pending an investigation as to whether or not it was necessary to send it illegally over Russia without permission. It’ll be necessary for you to remove McLanahan from his White House position and definitely not consider him for commander of HAWC pending the outcome of the investigation. We should also announce a suspension of all Black Stallion spaceplane flights. We can call it a ‘safety review’ or ‘policy review,’ whatever sounds appropriate, but they stay on the ground indefinitely.”

“That’s the typical knee-jerk reaction to something like this, Joe — we don’t need to indulge in it too,” Vice President Hershel said. “All the crew did was overfly Russia — they didn’t attack, and they did nothing hostile.”

“That’s not going to be the way it’s perceived.”

“We don’t know how it’s going to be perceived, Joe,” Maureen argued. “All I’m saying is, we shouldn’t hang Patrick — General McLanahan — or…or the spaceplane crew out to dry until we know the facts.”

“I understand your feelings and admire your loyalty to McLanahan, Miss Vice President, but…”

“But nothing, Mr. Secretary,” she snapped. “My feelings for the general have nothing to do with this. I…”

“That’s enough, all of you,” the President interjected. “Maureen, I’ve got no choice on this one. We know the press and the opponents of the Black Stallion spaceplane program are going to use this incident against this administration and against the project, and I don’t want to give them any more ammunition to use against us.” He thought for a moment; then: “I’m grounding the spaceplanes until the furor over the overflight blows over and the Senate concludes their midnight snipe-hunt. Is that clear, General McLanahan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Patrick, you will report back here to your post in the White House,” the President went on. “I don’t want you anywhere near Dreamland. You’re still a special adviser to the President and covered by executive privilege. You let us take any comments on the spaceplane incident. And you don’t step foot on a combat aircraft even if it’s just flying you to Washington. You’re flying a desk for a while, right here, in a suit and tie. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Carson, I’d like you to send a message to the Russian embassy, apologizing for the overflight, promising them it won’t happen again, assuring them the spacecraft was unarmed, not spying on Russia or any other country, and posed no threat of any kind to Russia,” the President went on. “You can even offer to pay for the missiles they shot at the spaceplane…the ones the spaceplane outran. We’ll provide no other details. Tony will mention this communiqué to the press.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Anyone have anything else for me?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied. “I’m looking at overhead imagery of the Ruhollah Khomeini library in Qom taken just moments ago, and it appears that the library has been destroyed.”

“What?” the Secretary of Defense exclaimed. “Destroyed by whom? McLanahan, I swear, if you had something to do with this…!”

“Most likely it was done by General Buzhazi,” Patrick said. “He’s making good on this promise to wipe out the theocracy. I never would have expected him to assassinate them, but I believe that’s what he’s done.”

“I haven’t heard McLanahan deny he had anything to do with it!”

“Patrick? Let’s hear it,” the President said.

If Patrick was stung by the accusation or the President’s request, he didn’t show it. “We have no spaceplanes or weapons of any kind in orbit, sir,” Patrick responded.

“What about the satellites that shot you that overhead imagery?” Gardner asked. “How many other satellites do you have in orbit?”

“We have a constellation of four NIRTSats in a circular orbit, initially providing surveillance and communications support for the Black Stallion mission and now providing surveillance on northern and central Iran,” Patrick replied. “Those satellites will cease operations in about six days. We are in the process of launching another constellation of more persistent reconnaissance satellites in an elliptical orbit over eastern Russia, maintaining a longer-term watch over the Kavaznya ground-based anti-satellite laser site. We have no other spacecraft in orbit.”

“Kavaznya? Why in hell would you watch Kavaznya?” Vice President Hershel remarked. “That place was destroyed decades ago…by you.”

“We believe the Black Stallion spaceplane was hit by a high-powered laser from the vicinity of Kavaznya,” Patrick said.

“What…?”

“You have proof of this, Patrick?”

“No, ma’am. That’s why we’re going to launch the surveillance satellites as soon as possible.”

“If the Russians want to complain about spaceplane overflights, maybe we should complain about our aircraft being shot at by their laser!”

“I’d rather not, ma’am,” Patrick said. “I’d like time to get some photos and gather more intel first.”

“Why — so you can plan and carry out another sneak attack on Russia?” Secretary of Defense Gardner asked derisively. “That’s your style, isn’t it, McLanahan — keep all the intel you gather for yourself and lash out without getting permission? You follow the old saying: better to ask forgiveness than ask permission. Right, General?”

“Enough, Joe,” the President said. “I was in the White House when the Russians first fired that thing, and it was the most terrifying weapon we’ve ever encountered except for their nuclear missiles. We rely on spacecraft a lot more than we did twenty years ago. If it was Kavaznya, the Russians must shut it down immediately, or we’ll destroy it again.”

“You sure you want to restrict the spaceplane fleet now, in light of this new development, Kevin?” Maureen Hershel asked sotto voce. “If we had to move against that laser, the spaceplanes might be the only weapon system short of a sub-launched ballistic missile that can take it.”

“The spaceplanes stay restricted,” the President said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “We’ll deal with Kavaznya diplomatically. Got that, Patrick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jonas, I want to know everything about that laser site as soon as possible,” the President said. “General McLanahan, cancel your plans to insert that new satellite constellation to watch over Kavaznya. Let General Sparks coordinate intel work with the National Reconnaissance Office and the NSA — the Air Battle Force does have a habit of giving out information only after the fact.”

“That’s not our intention, sir,” Patrick argued, in a more defensive tone of voice than he’d intended. “We share all our information in a timely…”

“General.”

“Yes, Mr. President, we’ll cancel our constellation setup immediately.”

“Thank you.” The President nodded to his chief of staff, who immediately hit the “OFF” button on the videophone device.

“I accept that you’re bringing McLanahan back to the White House, sir,” National Security Adviser Sparks commented after the videophone terminal had gone dark, “but I will not take any more reports or requests of any kind from him unless I ask for them first. He can sit in the basement and twiddle his thumbs all day for all I care.”

“I’ll have plenty for him to do,” the President said.

“That’ll be important if we intend on protecting him under executive privilege,” chief of staff Minden pointed out. He accepted a folder from an aide that had hurried into the Oval Office. “The various legal advisers to whatever Congressional committee who wants to subpoena him will surely find out if he’s just taking up space in a basement office. If they believe we’re just hiding him here, they’ll pierce the executive privilege veil easily.” He paused, then said, “And here’s the first subpoena: the Senate Armed Services Committee, naming all the usual players in the White House, including McLanahan. Requested by Senator Barbeau as ranking member but signed off by the chairman.”

“Hand it over to the counsel’s office and winnow the list down.”

“Yes, sir,” Minden said.

“It might help if you spoke with Senator Barbeau yourself, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Gardner suggested. “Privately.”

The President glanced over at Minden, noticed the conspiratorial smile on his face, and scowled at both of them. “Are you pimping for me now, Joe?”

“We know exactly what the woman wants, what motivates her, and what tantalizes her,” Minden said seriously, yet the smile remained. “She’s as hard to read as a Playboy centerfold.”

“Stick to the issues, Carl.”

“What she wants, other than ever-increasing doses of power and influence, is a strong long-range attack force based on manned and unmanned bombers — built and based in Louisiana, of course,” Gardner said. “The Pentagon wants a balanced, powerful, flexible, effective force, composed of land-based bombers, sea-based attack aircraft, and ballistic missile submarines. Spaceplanes might be thrown into the mix, but they’ll take at least ten and perhaps twenty years to develop. If we put them on the back burner and rebudget the money, we can have a robust force of bombers and attack planes on the line in five years — less than half the time it’ll take to build McLanahan’s gadgets.”

“It’s McLanahan’s contention that the bombers and carrier-based aircraft represent outdated twentieth century technology,” Vice President Hershel said. “The spaceplanes represent the twenty-first century. They’ve proven they can do the job, even in this initial phase of operational testing.”

“Employed properly that may be so, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said. “But right now only one man knows how to use the damned things.”

“You mean, because that one man is Patrick McLanahan, you want to put the entire program on the back burner?”

“I just don’t trust the guy, that’s all, Miss Vice President,” Gardner said, spreading his arms resignedly. “Any other general would have requested permission to fly those spaceplanes over Russia, or at least notified us ahead of time. Not McLanahan. And it’s not the first time he’s sprung a surprise on the White House or Pentagon.”

“He gets the job done…”

“He’s not the guru everyone thinks he is,” Gardner argued. “Not long ago, McLanahan was clamoring for more money for his robot bombers, hypersonic missiles, and fancy airborne lasers…”

“That was before the American Holocaust, Joe.”

“Exactly. Now we have no bombers in the inventory, except for a handful of those robot planes. That’s the force that needs to be rebuilt again, not spaceplanes. McLanahan is delusional. He has this inflated ego that makes him think he’s got all the answers…”

“This is not about the man, but the weapon system…”

“Unfortunately they seem to be one and the same right now, ma’am,” General Sparks said. He turned to the President and added, “I agree with SECDEF, sir: if we place all our trust and funding into these spaceplanes, we may not see a return on our investment for twenty years — if at all.”

“But the alternative is bombers that take twelve hours and a half-dozen support aircraft to reach a target, or ships that can be sunk with one torpedo or cruise missile?” the President asked. “Is that the best the United States can do?”

“We’re not talking about propeller-driven bombers and wooden sailing ships,” Gardner argued. “We’re talking about several wings of unmanned stealth bombers carrying long-range standoff weapons, modern aircraft carriers, and the latest carrier-based aircraft and weaponry, all assembled and deployed within five years. It may not be the latest and greatest technology, but it’s years better than the enemy’s.”

“And we’d have it on the line sooner rather than later and have the manpower, education, and infrastructure to support it all,” Sparks added. “I do believe that’s a better choice than putting the bulk of the budget into unproven technology.”

“And it would avoid a lot of political wrangling in Congress,” chief of staff Minden interjected, “which because of McLanahan we cannot afford to indulge in now.”

“That’s called ‘appeasement,’ Carl — attempting to stop complaints or reduce difficulties by making concessions or abandoning desires or goals,” Maureen said. “There’s no reason to avoid confrontation, in Congress or anywhere else. The President knows what he wants. It’s up to us to support him.”

“Hold on, hold on,” the President said. “This is not about forcing agreement or browbeating one another to get our own way. We all want the same thing: security for the United States of America. Even in her most outspoken partisan political scheming, I believe even firebrand operatives like Stacy Anne Barbeau want the exact same thing.”

Kevin Martindale affixed each of them with a direct, stern expression, then said, “This is the way it’s going to work, folks: you will give me all your input, pro or con, whichever way you see it, without hesitation or personal attacks; I will take it all into consideration and come up with a decision. My expectation is that you will support whatever plan I come up with. If you can’t support me, tender your resignation and it’ll be reluctantly but quickly accepted.”

He scanned the faces of his national security staff once again, then added, “There’s no reason why this decision has to be a test of political will, but somehow it’s become that. I’m sure it’s because of the money — two hundred, three hundred billion dollars over the next ten years is hard to ignore. I don’t want to fight, and I don’t think we need to fight over this. But I’ve been in the White House for sixteen years and in Washington for twice that — I know political turf wars start over much less. If it’s a battle they want, they’ll get a good one.

“But I don’t want any battles in the White House or in public between the people in this room or anyone else that reports to me — McLanahan included,” the President went on. “My door is open to all of you any time. Tell me what you think; tell me what you fear. I’ll listen. Otherwise, you keep your traps shut unless it’s something you’ve been briefed you can say. If you can’t abide by that simple rule, I’ll show you the door. Got it?” There was a murmur of “Yes, Mr. President” all around the Oval Office. “Good. Now get the hell out so I can do something about this headache.”