Strike Force

CHAPTER 4

“This is an absolute abomination!” screamed the Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, director of the Supreme National Security Directorate, a conglomeration of military, civilian, and religious leaders who advised Iran’s Supreme Leader on military matters. “That this should happen in the holiest of places in the Islamic Republic is nothing short of criminal bestiality!”

“General Yassini should be arrested and charged with treason for his unauthorized meeting with Buzhazi and for criminal conspiracy in the attack on Qom,” Colonel Zolqadr said. “I shall prosecute him personally. He and all his outgoing communications from the Defense Ministry will be monitored carefully in case he attempts to contact Buzhazi. He should be removed from office and placed in solitary confinement to prevent him from using his staff or privileges of office to act against us.”

“I think that is a wise precaution, but we will need permission from the Supreme Leadership Council or the Faqih himself to authorize such a move against the chief of staff,” Mohtaz said. “Although I do not believe Yassini would betray the government and the people like Buzhazi has done, their friendship muddles the equation greatly. If Yassini was in Qom actually meeting with Buzhazi when the library was destroyed, and he had the slightest hint of what was about to happen, it is most certainly a case of conspiracy to commit high treason, and he must be dealt with accordingly.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Zolqadr responded.

“What is your plan for dealing with Buzhazi and his murderous criminals, Colonel?”

“Certainly not the ‘wait and then give amnesty’ tactic, Excellency, as Yassini advocates,” the Pasdaran commander said. “Buzhazi has many more men to feed, equip, and move, and so he will be desperate for resupply — contrary to what Yassini believes, Buzhazi can’t equip a battalion-sized force off the land or begging from civilians. He will certainly be targeting supply bases — he has no choice. That is how I propose to destroy him.”

He spread a map out on the conference table for the ayatollah to examine. “The Pasdaran supply warehouses at Arān were evacuated and abandoned because of the chemical gas attack Buzhazi staged,” Zolqadr went on, “but the gas has since dissipated. If it appears that we do not know this, and Buzhazi returns to loot the rest of the warehouses, we can surround him.”

Ayatollah Mohtaz looked at the map, but he wasn’t thinking about the plan — he was thinking about whom to support in this conflict — it was a much more pressing issue for his own safety and future well-being than whatever Buzhazi had in mind.

It was generally believed that the regular armed forces were more secular than the Pasdaran, and so were less likely to support the clerical regime. But so far the Pasdaran hadn’t captured Buzhazi — in fact, the insurgency had steadily grown into a serious fighting force now despite the Pasdaran’s pursuit. Yassini’s plan was to deal with Buzhazi logically and rationally, appealing to his soldier’s sense of honor and duty to his country and his men. Zolqadr simply wanted to lure him into a trap, and Buzhazi appeared to be well prepared to wiggle out of any trap, especially one set by Zolqadr. Which was most likely to succeed?

Well, he thought, there really wasn’t any choice to make. If Mohtaz even hinted at supporting the regular army over the Pasdaran, he would be immediately arrested, imprisoned, and probably executed. Buzhazi represented the regular army, and he had killed a great many politicians and leaders already — anyone even remotely appearing as if they supported him was doomed…

…like Yassini, if it was shown that he actually was in Qom meeting with Buzhazi before the library was destroyed.

“I will present your proposal to the entire acting Security Council, Colonel,” Mohtaz said, “but you should expect approval in very short order, so you should be prepared to act.”

“Yes, Excellency. All will be ready.”

“Very good.” Mohtaz thought for a moment; then: “One more thing.”

“Yes, Excellency?”

The cleric turned away from Zolqadr, as if distancing himself from his own words, then said, “You are sure that Yassini was in Qom meeting with Buzhazi, without a shadow of doubt…”

“I have many witnesses who will testify to it, Excellency, as well as testify about the intercepted radio transmissions picked up between them just before the library was destroyed.” Zolqadr hoped all that was true — his actual information had come from gossip and rumors about Yassini possibly going to Qom to check out the situation at the Khomeini Library and personally take charge of a rescue mission.

Mohtaz nodded, still turned away from Zolqadr, then said, “Then his guilt is beyond doubt. Deal with it as you see fit…General Zolqadr.”

“You told them we weren’t in orbit yet when we flew over Russia, sir?” Captain Hunter Noble asked incredulously. He was meeting with Patrick McLanahan, Dave Luger, Ann Page, Hal Briggs, and Chris Wohl in the Battle Staff briefing area at Elliott Air Force Base.

“What did you expect the general to say, Boomer?” Dave asked.

“Lie, of course,” Hunter replied matter-of-factly. “The only guys that could have tracked us were the Russians, and nobody believes what they say any more.”

“You need a little more experience talking with the President of the United States before you go around giving tips on lying to the national security staff, Boomer,” Patrick suggested. “If I recall correctly, you had a tough time saying anything when we visited the Oval Office.”

“Touché. I’ll be quiet now, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“So we’re grounded now?” Ann Page asked. “I just got here! I love those little Studs! Can’t we do something? You’re the special adviser to the President and a three-star general, General — pull some strings, throw some weight around.”

Patrick was silent for a few moments, adopting his infamous “thousand-yard stare” as his mind turned over possibilities. “Look out, everyone — the ‘Rubik’s Cube’ is in motion,” Dave Luger commented.

Patrick winked at Dave. “The spaceplanes are grounded, we can’t launch any more NIRTSats, and the ones we have monitoring Iran will fall out of the sky in less than six days,” he summarized. “What else do we have?”

“Squat,” Boomer said. “We’re shut down.”

“Maybe not,” Patrick said. “We still have one asset we can bring online to help us — we just need someone who can fly the thing over to where we need it.”

Ann Page noticed Patrick and Dave Luger looking…at her. “What?” she asked. “I’m grounded, same as you guys. Get me permission to fly the Stud again and I’ll take her anywhere you want.”

“I’m not thinking about the Stud,” Patrick said. “I’m thinking about bringing Armstrong Space Station online again.”

“Silver Tower!” Ann exclaimed. “You serious?”

“It’s the greatest surveillance platform in existence,” Patrick said. “It can scan every square foot of the entire Middle East or Siberia in one pass, including underwater and underground. If we want to find out what’s happening in Iran — or Kavaznya, if we have to go up against that thing again — that’s what we need.”

“Sounds fine with me, Patrick — I love going up to that thing and turning it on,” Ann said happily, so excited she could hardly keep her seat. “But the only way we have to get up there is with the Shuttle, and it takes at least two months — more like six — to get it ready for a mission.”

“We have access to Ares,” Dave Luger said. “We’ve been involved in testing from the beginning, and we can put together a launch in no time.”

“The new Crew Launch Vehicle?” Ann remarked. Ares was the next generation of low-cost, highly reliable, reusable heavy rocket launchers. Its first stage was a five-segment solid-rocket booster similar to the Shuttle’s Solid Rocket Boosters; its second stage was a liquid-fueled booster uprated and improved from the Saturn-V’s J-2 engine. “Cool. But what about Orion?”

Dave shook his head. “We never got to play with the Crew Exploration Vehicle, only the booster,” he said. Orion was the name of the new series of manned space vehicles destined to replace the Shuttle Transportation System. Resembling the Apollo spacecraft, Orion could carry as many as six astronauts and was designed to be configurable for any space mission from low Earth orbit to a trip to Mars. “But we do have a cargo stage that we used to test the Meteor weapon dispenser.”

Ann shook her head. “Ares won’t help if the cargo stage can’t carry passengers,” Ann said. “We need at least two persons aboard Silver Tower to bring it online again and operate the surveillance systems.” She paused, smiled, and said, “And me to command it, of course. We need a Shuttle mission. We hitch a ride on the next Shuttle flight, get on board, restart the environmental systems, and reactivate the station’s sensors and datalinks,” Ann Page said. “When’s the next flight?”

Dave queried the “Duty Officer,” the electronic virtual assistant at Dreamland, and got the answer moments later. “Four months,” Dave Luger replied. “Too long. Whatever’s going to happen in Iran will happen in four days.”

“Well, let’s put together an earlier one.”

“Are we talking about the same National Aeronautical and Space Administration as I am?” Patrick asked. “NASA is so ultracautious that if we make a simple five-pound payload change they will either cancel the flight or slip it six months to study all the possible ramifications. If it was an Air Force program, like the Black Stallion, we might have a chance.”

“What about the America spaceplane?”

“Canceled years ago.”

“The Stud can make it,” Boomer said.

“No way,” Ann said. “Last I knew, the Silver Tower was in a two-hundred-mile-plus orbit. How high can you take the Stud? I didn’t think it could go higher than one hundred miles or so.”

“It can do two hundred easily — if it was a one-way mission,” Boomer said matter-of-factly.

“A one-way mission?” Patrick asked.

“I haven’t computed the exact fuel requirement, sir, but I’d guess the Stud would use just about all of its fuel to get up to two hundred miles,” Boomer said. “Since I assume we’d be using the cargo bay for passengers, some supplies, and the docking system, there’s no room for extra fuel for the return, even for a ballistic Shuttle-like re-entry. It would have to be refueled on the station to return.”

“Which means if you can’t reach the station or fail to dock…”

“We’d be stranded in orbit until we were rescued,” Boomer said. “But we’d just have to make sure we got it right the first time.”

“The passenger module is ready to go?”

“Sure. We can fit a docking adapter and airlock onto the passenger module. We can carry two passengers plus the Stud’s crew and still transfer everyone to the station. We’d have to bring jet fuel and ‘boom’ up on a Shuttle or on the Ares booster with the cargo stage. Can that be done?”

“The station has a Soyuz- and Agena-compatible cargo dock and a universal crew docking adapter, so we can dock and resupply at the same time,” Ann said. The unmanned Russian Soyuz modules resupplied the Russian and International Space Stations, while the Agena modules resupplied the American Skylab station. “We refueled America on the station several times.”

“We can use the cargo stage of Ares to bring jet fuel and BOHM to the station to refuel the XR-A9,” Dave said. “It has plenty of room to carry that, and the stuff is stable enough to handle a launch. We would just need to be sure that Silver Tower has the gear necessary to service the Stud.”

“You’ve got the exact same gear the America spaceplane used for servicing,” Ann said. “It’ll work. You get the Stud and the Ares cargo stage to Silver Tower, and we can fill ’er up.”

“I’ve never docked the Black Stallion before,” Boomer said. “I mean, I know I can do it — I can fly that thing anywhere you want — but…”

“If he can’t do it, the crew is stranded,” Dave said.

“Can’t you just park the spaceplane near the station and then just spacewalk from the spaceplane to the station?” Patrick asked.

“You can, but a spacewalk is by far the most dangerous activity in all of space flight,” Ann said. “It takes training and practice to get the movements just right. Push when you’re not supposed to, miss a leap or a grasp, activate the wrong switch, and you could go flying off into Neverland in the blink of an eye — or fall to Earth and burn up like a meteorite. Get a tether or umbilical tangled and you could be like Captain Ahab lassoed to Moby Dick for all eternity. The longer the distance between spacecraft, the greater the danger. Twenty feet will seem like twenty miles up there.” She looked at Hunter. “I don’t even think we can fit a Shuttle-style EVA getup in the Black Stallion. We’ll have to use Gemini- or Skylab-style spacesuit setups — pressure suits and emergency oxygen bottles only, with simple tethers. I don’t even think the Black Stallion is set up for umbilicals, is it?”

“We never intended to do spacewalks from the Stud,” Boomer said. “Heck, we’ll have to modify the safety squat switches to allow us to open the canopies with the landing gear retracted.”

“But it can be done?” Patrick asked. “We can fly the Black Stallion to Armstrong Space Station, dock or climb out, and space-walk over to the station?”

“Sure,” Ann said. “There are a million things that can go wrong, but that’s typical for any space mission. I don’t see why we can’t do it.”

“Shuttle astronauts did tethered spacewalks quite a bit,” Dave said. “Even Gemini and Apollo astronauts did little spacewalks all the time. Every Skylab mission had several spacewalks to service the experiments they were running.”

“But each spacewalk was preceded by months of training and years of design study and testing,” Ann said. “We’re trying to put all this together in hours. We need some experienced crewmen to send up there. I volunteer. Got any ideas for another?”

Patrick smiled and nodded. “Dave, get Kai Raydon on the phone for me,” he said. Dave smiled, nodded, then picked up the telephone.

“Raydon, the Shuttle pilot?” Ann asked. “Haven’t seen him at the bar in quite awhile — I’m sure he owes me a few rounds. Is he still with NASA?”

“Was,” Patrick said. “He was reassigned to Los Angeles Air Force Base and put in charge of a program that just got canceled, and he came to me recently looking for a flying job. You may have heard of the program, Ann: Hermes.”

“The European Space Agency spaceplane project? It was canceled years ago. Raydon’s not that old.”

“The name was deliberately used to throw people off the track,” Patrick said. “Kai’s been involved in another project using that name. You knew it as ‘Skybolt.’”

“Skybolt!” Ann Page exclaimed. “That’s my project! What in hell’s going on, sir?”

“Skybolt, the space-based laser?” Boomer asked. “It’s still up there?”

“Did you really believe the U.S. would spend two billion dollars and five years to launch a massive space station into orbit and then just leave it up there, Ann?” Dave Luger asked. “When Raydon was getting his Ph.D. in the Air Force Institute of Technology program his dissertation was on the reactivation of Skybolt.”

“I know, I know, General — I was on his doctorate panel,” Ann said. “The guy’s brilliant. But the proposal never went anywhere. I was in the Senate committee overseeing funding for military space programs, and I pushed several budget cycles for the money to reactivate it. It never happened.”

“Skybolt went on life support funding under HAWC’s advanced technology research budget,” Patrick explained. “Officially the money went toward refueling and servicing the Armstrong Space Station to keep it aloft, and to use the station’s systems as a risk reducer for the SpaceBased Radar and SpaceBased Infrared System programs. Unofficially, we funneled some money over to Skybolt. The money runs out at the end of this fiscal year. After that, there’s enough money for a maximum of three Shuttle flights over the following twelve months to strip whatever useful stuff we could off the station before it re-enters the atmosphere.”

“They don’t want to spend a few measly million a year to save a space station worth more than three billion?” Ann asked. “The characters in Congress can be real jerks sometimes — I should know. So Raydon’s been to Silver Tower?”

“A few times. That’s classified.”

“That’s good,” Ann said. “And he’s an experienced Shuttle jockey, so he can handle the docking chores. So we got me and Raydon to turn the station on — all we need is for young Hunter Noble to give us a ride up there.”

“Okay, cadets, listen up,” Civil Air Patrol Captain Ed Harlow, commander of the Grand Rapids Composite Squadron of the Civil Air Patrol, said. He and a group of thirty-six cadets surrounding him were in a grassy clearing in the middle of a large forest in the Sturgeon River State Forest, about fifty miles northeast of Grand Rapids in northeast Minnesota. The cadets, wearing camouflaged fatigues, baseball caps, and combat boots, ranged in age from fourteen to seventeen years old. “This is our final exercise for this encampment, but it’s also the most important, so pay attention.

“We’ve concentrated on a lot of the search, rescue, first aid, communications, and critical support functions of the Civil Air Patrol mission. But all of our procedures deal with using our equipment, technology, and skills to help others in distress. But what if we get in trouble while on a mission? What if you become lost or crash-land while on a flight? How do we even understand what it’s like to be in a search, survival, or escape-and-evasion situation? Our final exercise will be to see how well you can help yourself if you become involved in a difficult situation.

“This exercise is a confidence-builder rather than a procedural evolution,” the CAP commander went on. “Your objective is simple: collect as many different objective markers as you can in four hours and return your entire flight to the starting point in the center of the exercise area. The flight with the most markers collected in the shortest time wins.

“We’re located in a wooded area of about ten square kilometers, bordered by Vermillion Lake to the north and east, the state park highway to the east, and Highway Twenty-four to the south and west — if you come across any of these major landmarks, you’ll know which way to travel to get re-oriented and headed back to the objective. We’ll drive you to starting points on different sections of the exercise area and set you loose at the same time. The markers are located in camouflaged metal ammo boxes marked on your maps. When you find the can, each flight takes one marker only from the can and leaves the rest.

“To make it more interesting, you have the capability to capture another flight’s markers,” the CAP commander went on. “You are all wearing laser targets and carrying eye-safe laser guns. If you come across another flight, and if you can hit the flight leader before he hits you, you capture his markers. The guns have a range of only thirty feet or less, so you need to be fairly close to your target to hit him. You can return to a previously discovered can to get another marker, but remember, only one marker from each can per flight.” He answered a few questions, made sure his four flights of nine cadets each were equipped and ready, then split them up into vans that took them to their starting points.

The exercise proceeded throughout the afternoon. The terrain was flat and rolling, with numerous hiking trails, outhouses, signs, and other landmarks to make the test challenging without letting anyone get lost. Harlow’s staff acted as referees and would assist any cadet flights who were having real difficulty, but most of these cadets, all from northern Minnesota and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, were experienced outdoors enthusiasts, and Harlow didn’t expect any emergencies.

In fact, the flights were so evenly matched that as they approached the four-hour cutoff time, three of the four flights were approaching the objective point in the middle of the exercise area all at once. Harlow had set out each flight’s guidon in the clearing, and as the cadets got closer they started running through the woods toward their flag. “Once you enter the clearing, no more laser guns,” Harlow announced over a bullhorn as he saw the three groups converging on the objective point. “C’mon in and let’s count ’em up.”

This was strange, he thought as the three groups ran in — the fourth flight, Delta Flight, nicknamed “Red Dogs,” was nowhere to be seen. All of the flights were evenly matched; Delta Flight was perhaps slightly less “outdoorsy” and more intellectual than the others, but this was rather surprising — with only a few minutes left to go, the Red Dogs still were not anywhere in sight. Usually they were able to keep up with whatever else the rest of the cadet squadron did, but it didn’t appear to be the case today. Harlow raised his walkie-talkie and clicked the mike button: “Anyone seen Delta?” he asked. The answers all came back negative.

Well, Harlow thought, perhaps this will take a little steam out of Delta Flight’s fiery commander, fifteen-year-old Cadet Lieutenant Katelyn VanWie. She had this annoying air about her. She was cocky but wasn’t a braggard; she was smart but not a know-it-all; quiet but not shy; self-confident but not pretentious. It was as if she knew she was better than everyone else but simply chose not to prove it. She had infused the other eight members of Delta Flight with the same assuredness to the point that the team took on the same personality as its commander, which didn’t exactly endear them to the rest of the squadron.

To be honest, Harlow thought, Katelyn wasn’t an annoying kid — but she was different. He could sense it. It was as if she had some sort of magnetic attraction that drew people to her side somehow. That kind of personality turned some people off. Moreover, she knew she was different, that she had this power, but she chose not to exercise it for some reason — even though she did employ it. Frequently.

Harlow scanned the treeline once more, shook his head in confusion, then keyed the mike button: “Let’s bring the rest of the flight in, then we’ll organize a search,” he radioed. “We’ll concentrate our search on Route Twenty-four and the forest service road. If they somehow crossed the service road without realizing it, they could be outside the park in…”

At that moment he heard a cacophony of high-pitched buzzers. The cadets heading in from the forest slapped their hands over the laser sensors, trying to block the incoming laser beams, but it was too late — in seconds, every flight leaders’ target alarm was sounding. “Hey, I said, no more lasers!” he shouted. “Who is doing that?”

As he watched, members of Delta Flight appeared out of nowhere — out of trees, from behind bushes, even from underground. They tapped the flight commanders and held out their hands. Each flight commander looked up at Harlow imploringly, asking if this was real. He could do nothing but shrug his shoulders, and the flight commanders handed over their marker buttons. The members of Delta Flight marched in triumphantly with their prizes. “Red Dog Delta reporting as directed, sir,” the flight’s senior noncommissioned cadet officer, Cadet Master Sergeant Doug Lenz, said, saluting. He held out his hand. “Here’s our tally, sir.”

“Every member of your flight needs to be present by the expiration time to claim the win, Cadet Master Sergeant,” Harlow said perturbedly, confused as to what exactly just happened here. He looked at his watch. “Lieutenant VanWie has fifteen seconds to report here before I’ll…”

“All of Red Dog Delta reporting as directed, sir,” came a girl’s voice. Harlow spun — and saw Katelyn VanWie standing directly behind him, saluting, appearing as if out of nowhere. She was shorter than most of her other teammates, thin, with a darker complexion than most Scandinavian-bred Minnesotans had. Her red hair was tucked up under her cap, and her hazel eyes flashed, giving away her glee in shocking her squadron commander…

…and his eyes were drawn to the hand raised to the brim of her cap. He knew he shouldn’t be distracted by it, knew it really wasn’t a big deal. But every time he saw it, it was as if it was for the first time. Could that be part of the pervasive uneasiness he always felt around her?

Harlow had to blink and take a deep breath to rinse away the surprise before returning the salute. “Jesus, VanWie, how long have you been there?”

“On this particular spot, sir? About two hours.”

“Two hours? What is going on here?” he snapped.

“Red Dog Delta reporting as ordered, sir,” Katelyn said, dropping her hand. “We claim the victory.”

“Where have you been? No one has seen you in the exercise area all afternoon!”

“We didn’t go to the exercise area, sir,” Katelyn admitted.

“What? Where did you go then?”

“We came directly here, sir.”

“Here? Where’s ‘here?’”

“Here, to the objective point, sir.”

“Did you not understand the instructions, VanWie?”

“I believe we understood the directions perfectly, sir.”

“But you didn’t go to the exercise area? How many markers did you collect?”

Katelyn quickly counted the markers her NCOIC had given her. “We collected twenty-five, sir.”

“No, I mean, how many did you collect?” He could see that Katelyn was about to give the same answer, so he interjected: “I mean, how many ammo boxes did your flight find out of the ten on the course?”

“We didn’t find any of them, sir.”

“None of them?”

“No, sir.” Katelyn started to look confused — Harlow couldn’t tell if it was playacting or genuine.

“Then how can you claim to be the winner if you didn’t find any of the markers you set out to find?”

“We didn’t set out to find anything, sir.”

“You said that. But the purpose of the exercise was to use land navigation skills to locate the ammo cans, retrieve as many markers as possible from those cans, then return here as quickly as possible before the end of the exercise period. Am I correct, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“You said the objective was to rendezvous at the objective point with as many markers as possible before the end of the exercise,” Katelyn said. “The flight with the most markers wins. We have twenty-five markers. I believe that makes us the winner, sir.”

It was finally starting to dawn on Harlow what was going on, and he felt the anger rising in his temples. “You mean to tell me that you didn’t actually go out to find markers, but you took the four hours allotted for this exercise to set up an ambush on your fellow cadets to take their markers after they returned here to the rendezvous point?”

“Sir, the objective was to collect the markers and…”

“The purpose of the exercise, Lieutenant, was for you and your flight members to practice land navigation techniques and participate in a friendly competition on the last day of our encampment, not to ambush your fellow squadron members!”

Katelyn snapped to attention. “Perhaps I did misunderstand the objectives of the exercise, sir,” she said. “I apologize.” She waited a few moments; then, just as Harlow thought the argument was over, asked, “Pardon me, sir, but…who won the exercise, if Red Dog Delta flight did not?”

He had been wondering the very same thing — and he didn’t have an answer. “This was not about ‘winning’ anything, Lieutenant — it’s about practicing land navigation, evasion, and teamwork techniques, plus having a little fun in the outdoors on the last day of our encampment.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a wishy-washy answer — he knew it, she knew it, and he knew that she knew that he knew it too. He looked at the eager, exhausted, and happy faces of Red Dog Delta around him, and then at the disappointed, angry, and confused faces of the other squadron members, and realized he had better just leave it at that. “Good job, all of you,” he said. He checked his watch. “The Minnesota National Guard will be at the parking lot in about two hours to fly us out in the Chinook. Police the area and get some water. We’ll march back in fifteen minutes.” Harlow stepped away from the cadets, feeling the disappointment of VanWie’s flight on the back of his neck.

“Sergeant, organize a site cleanup detail,” Katelyn said to Doug Lenz, her cadet NCOIC. She picked out two landmarks to the north and west of the center of the clearing they were in. “We’ll take this quadrant and police the area out toward the treeline and one hundred meters beyond. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll join you.”

“But what about the exercise?” Lenz asked. “Do we get any recognition for winning the exercise?”

“You heard the captain — the prize was the successful completion of the exercise,” she replied. She stepped closer to him, smiled, and added, “Besides, we all know who won.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Now get going. Be ready to move out in one minute.” Lenz saluted and trotted away.

“I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you, VanWie?” one of the other flight leaders, a seventeen-year-old boy named Johansson, who looked closer to twenty-seven, said. The other flight leaders had been talking together and had turned defensively toward Katelyn as she approached them. “You knew damned well that we were supposed to find those markers ourselves, not ambush one another and steal theirs!”

“Sure I knew it,” Katelyn said, “but the captain made it clear what the objective was, and I made my plan based on the objectives of the exercise, not what I assumed we were supposed to do.”

“You didn’t win, and you just showed everyone again what a little red-headed weirdo you are.”

“I’m going to take this quadrant of the clearing for cleanup,” Katelyn said, ignoring the remark. Her cadet NCOIC trotted up to her and told her the flight was ready to move out. “You guys decide what areas you’re going to take.”

“Why don’t you just take you and your ET hands out into the woods and stay there, freak,” Johansson said.

Katelyn ignored the remark — she was accustomed to it — but her friend and cadet NCOIC, Doug Lenz, didn’t. Before she could stop him, Lenz — who wasn’t that much bigger than Katelyn, even though he was a year older — shouted, “Shut up, asshole!” then charged at the other flight leader. He got one good punch in to the side of the flight leader’s chest, and Lenz’s head butted the other boy’s chin and opened a slight cut, but that was all.

Johansson pushed Lenz’s head down and aside, then wiped blood from his chin. “Motherfucker…!” he muttered, then punched Lenz once, hard, on the back of his neck, and the younger boy went down. The flight leader turned, knelt on Lenz’s back, and raised a fist. “I’m gonna waste you, you piece of…!”

Suddenly he felt a boot strike his chest, and he stumbled back off the young cadet. Unhurt but confused, he looked around to find where the blow had come from…and he found Katelyn VanWie standing between him and Lenz, jumping slightly from foot to foot, her hands raised defensively…her hands, those hands, showing just four fingers on each hand. “Hey!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “You butt out, freak!”

“It’s over,” Katelyn said. “I apologize for Doug, and it won’t happen again.”

“I’m gonna kick his ass!” Johansson said. He took one of the other flight leaders by the arm and pushed him toward Katelyn. “Keep the freak away from me while I teach this a-hole not to mess with Bravo Flight.”

It was obvious the second cadet, a younger kid named Swanson, didn’t want to have anything to do with this, but he put up his hands and stood in front of Katelyn, determined to keep her away from his flight leader until the squadron commander came back. As he approached Katelyn, though, all he could look at was those hands and the weirdness of what looked like a finger in place of her thumbs…

…and he didn’t see her left leg sweep out and trip him. Swanson landed hard on his back and decided he was going to stay right there — he’d had enough of the girl with the ET fingers already…

“What is going on over here?” Captain Harlow thundered from several yards away.

“Group, ten-hut!” Katelyn shouted. She snapped to attention but kept her eyes on the flight leader, making sure he didn’t make a move toward her.

“I said, what’s going on here?” Harlow shouted again. “VanWie, did I see you just trip that cadet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Cadets Swanson and Johansson wanted a demonstration of muay thai, sir.”

“‘Muay thai?’ What’s that?”

“Kickboxing, sir.”

“Is that true, Swanson?”

The second cadet had just gotten to his feet, trying to get to attention while rubbing the back of his head. “Uh, I…yes, sir…I mean…”

“Johansson, what’s going on here?” Harlow demanded. He noticed the dust and dirt on Lenz’s uniform and the cut on Johansson’s chin — the only person here not dirty or bloody was VanWie, by far the smallest kid in this group. “Well?”

“We’re just…playing around, sir,” Johansson said. “We were demoing some martial arts moves.”

“I thought I told you guys to police this area and get ready to move out,” Harlow said. “I only see Delta out there. Now get busy.” The cadets saluted and ran off. “VanWie.” Katelyn trotted back and stood at attention. “Okay, Lieutenant, tell me what really happened.”

“It’s just like Lieutenant Johansson said, sir.”

“You don’t think I saw what happened, Lieutenant? Do you think I’m blind? Cadet Lenz attacked and struck Johansson, he defended himself and was preparing to hit back, you stepped in and kicked him, then stepped in between him and Lenz and knocked over Swanson. That makes you and Lenz the instigators and liable for disciplinary action. Now do you mind telling me what happened?”

“It was a misunderstanding, sir, that’s all.”

“A ‘misunderstanding?’ Explain.”

“Cadet Lenz misunderstood a comment made and overreacted. It was a failure in leadership on my part, so I’m responsible. If there’s any disciplinary action, it should be directed at myself.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Lieutenant. What comment was made?” Katelyn remained silent. “I asked you a question, Lieutenant.”

“I’d rather not say, sir.”

Harlow stepped back, crossed his arms, and took a breath. This was not the first time he’d heard about such comments, but it was the first time he’d ever seen VanWie react to it.

React, hell…Katelyn kicked his ass. Johansson easily had twenty-five pounds on her, and she made it look easy. As much as Johansson probably deserved it, the use of physical force instead of ignoring or reporting such comments was a dangerous change that had to be nipped in the bud right away.

“Lieutenant…Katelyn, listen: I strongly advise you not to resort to violence to solve problems, even if a friend or colleague is in danger,” Harlow said. “Striking a fellow officer is not permitted, and you could face some serious repercussions no matter what the circumstances are; but more importantly, violence in the heat of emotion is the most dangerous and non-productive kind. It makes you weaker, not stronger. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m saying this as your friend, Katelyn, not just your CO,” Harlow went on. “You’ve obviously got some martial arts skills, which I didn’t know you had. Nothing wrong with that, as long as it’s used for self-defense — otherwise, you should be smart, avoid confrontation, and notify the proper authorities first before things get out of hand, whether it’s myself, a teacher, your parents, or the police, if you’re in a situation where your friends or family are getting hurt.” Harlow could see Katelyn’s eyes briefly turn away when he mentioned her parents, but they quickly returned to his. “If you start acting like the enforcer, you turn into nothing but a bully. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Johansson’s comments about your hands, Katelyn?”

He could see her eyebrows droop a bit under the brim of her fatigue cap, but she replied, “I’d rather not say, sir.”

“You know that hypoplastic thumb is one of the most common congenital birth defects of the limbs, don’t you?” Harlow asked. Katelyn had received special permission from the Air Force to join the Civil Air Patrol because she was born with bilateral hypoplastic thumb — missing thumbs from both hands. At the age of one year she had pollicization surgery to position her index fingers in place of her missing thumbs, so she only had four fingers on each hand. But the results were excellent: despite her handicap, Katelyn was an accomplished student, pianist, typist, outdoorsperson, marksman — and apparently a martial artist, especially with her feet, which made perfect sense for someone with deformed hands. There was no skill or challenge in the Civil Air Patrol that she couldn’t master.

But her greatest skill wasn’t what she could do with only four fingers on each hand, but in the realm of leadership. Perhaps because most others expected less of the diminutive red-haired girl with the “ET hands,” she inspired others by her actions and distinguished herself as a natural-born leader. Her “Red Dog Delta” flight was consistently tops in required exams, dress and appearance, and field exercise performance in the squadron, and she often beat out flights all across the state that had far more physically capable members.

Yet she never stayed in the spotlight for very long, was annoyingly camera-shy, and had no other hobbies or interests outside her little northern Minnesota school other than Civil Air Patrol. She was a standout performer — especially so in an organization composed mostly of boys — but preferred not to stand out at all. It was the same with her parents: older, rather formal, bankers or some sort of financial consultants, always well-dressed but modestly so, not particularly demonstrative or affectionate. Like Katelyn, the parents looked as if they liked a challenge and craved a little action but preferred to be quiet and stay out of the spotlight.

“I did a little checking on the subject when you joined the squadron,” Harlow went on. “Although double hypoplastic thumb is rare, the condition is…”

“May I go back and supervise my flight, sir?” Katelyn interjected.

Harlow kicked himself for his insensitive babbling and nodded. “Just remember what we talked about, okay, Katelyn? Don’t try to be the hero. Being a good leader doesn’t mean kicking butt.”

“Yes, sir. May I go, sir?”

Harlow wasn’t sure how much he had said sunk in, but his clumsy way of trying to act empathetic toward her and her affliction probably ruined any chance he had of reaching her today. “Of course, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

“Thank you, sir,” she responded immediately, then saluted and headed off toward the clearing.

Katelyn had taken just a few steps when Harlow heard the beat of helicopter rotors approaching. He was a former Army finance officer and didn’t know very much about helicopters before joining the Civil Air Patrol, but he did know that wasn’t a Chinook — besides, it was arriving too early for their scheduled pickup, and it was in the wrong place.

Then he saw it — it was a UH-60 Black Hawk military helicopter with Minnesota Army National Guard markings on it — and it looked like it was maneuvering to land in the clearing! “Flight commanders, helicopter landing zone procedures, now!” he shouted. “Clear a zone for the helicopter!” His troops were very accustomed to working with helicopters, so the clearing was made ready in very short order. Moments after touchdown, two men stepped out of the helicopter — one in civilian clothing, and one in green battle dress uniform.

Harlow saluted the man in the BDUs, a lieutenant colonel, who returned his salute. “Captain Harlow? Grand Rapids CAP?” the man asked, shouting over the roar of the Black Hawk’s idling turbines.

“Yes, sir, that’s me.”

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Clay Lawson, commander of the Second of the One-forty-seventh Guard Aviation Brigade out of St. Paul,” the man said. “My unit’s been asked to provide support for the U.S. State Department. Because this request was…rather unusual, I decided to do it myself.”

“The State Department, sir?”

Lawson turned to the man in civilian clothes. “This is Special Agent Bruce Hamilton of the Protective Liaison Division of the U.S. State Department’s Bureau of Diplomatic Security,” Lawson said. “He’s here to retrieve one of your cadets.”

“Retrieve one of my cadets, sir?”

“Son, you’re going to have to get it together and work with me or we’re going to be out here all day,” Lawson said patiently. “This man wants to take one of your cadets with him. Now I don’t know your procedures, so I need you to tell me exactly what you need to do or who you need to call to accomplish this.”

“Y-yes, sir. Which cadet?” But he thought he already knew who…

“VanWie. Katelyn VanWie.”

Harlow opened his mouth, then closed it, looked away, then began to collect his thoughts. “I…I can only turn a cadet over to his or her parents, sir.”

“We thought so.” Lawson turned back to the National Guard officer. A crewmember opened the right side door, revealing two individuals strapped into web seats and wearing headsets. “Are those VanWie’s parents? Do you recognize them?”

Harlow stepped toward the helicopter and looked at them carefully, then waved at them. They did not wave back. He turned back toward the National Guard officer. “I want them out of the helicopter so I can speak to them directly.”

“I appreciate your concern, Captain, but we should make this quick,” Lawson said. He waved, and the flight engineer helped the two out of the harnesses and out of the helicopter. Harlow escorted them away from the helicopter. Hamilton began following them, but Lawson held him back. “He’s doing his job, Hamilton — let him,” he said.

Now several dozen yards away from everyone else, Harlow pulled the VanWies closer to him. “Richard? Linda? What’s going on? Are you two okay?”

“Where’s Katelyn?” Linda asked.

“I said, are you two okay?”

“We’re fine, Ed,” Richard said. “But we need to leave right away. Where’s Katelyn?”

Harlow turned and saw the squadron together around the periphery of the clearing, in front of the helicopter in full view of the pilot, as they were taught. As usual, Katelyn was mostly hidden in the back, almost out of sight. “She’s right there. She’s fine.” He thought for a moment, then said, “I thought you guys were at your mother’s place in Duluth during the encampment.”

“It’s Duquette, not Duluth, and it’s Richard’s brother’s place, not his mother’s,” Linda said. “We invited you there last spring but you came down with the flu.”

“I appreciate your caution here, Ed, testing us like that,” Richard said, “but this is urgent. We need to leave right away.”

“What’s going on here?”

“We…we need to take her with us,” Richard said.

“In a military helicopter?” He motioned to the National Guard officer and civilian. “Who are those guys? Do you know them?”

“We know Hamilton, but not the military officer.”

“Hamilton’s from the Defense Department?”

“State Department. Protective Liaison Division.”

Another test passed — Harlow was beginning to become convinced. “What’s this about? Are you in some kind of trouble?” They didn’t answer right away. “Listen, if you’re under some kind of duress — if these guys aren’t who they say they are — I can try to get you and Katelyn out of here. I have a satellite phone, and Katelyn and her flight are familiar with these woods and they have good escape and evasion skills. I can call for help…”

“No,” Richard said. “Those men are who they say they are.” He paused, then added, “But we’re not who we said we were.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“We’re not Katelyn’s parents — we’re her khataris, her bodyguards,” Richard said. He looked around nervously. “Something has happened, and we feel the shahdokht’s life is in danger, so she needs to be evacuated immediately.”

“The who?”

“Please, Ed, can we get out of here?” Linda said, desperate pleading in her voice. “Maybe we can talk on the helicopter…”

“I’ve got the whole squadron out here — I can’t leave!” Harlow said. “And I can’t let Katelyn leave until I’m satisfied she’ll be safe. If you’re not the VanWies, who in hell are you?”

“I am Major Parviz Najar, and this is Lieutenant Mara Saidi,” Richard said. “We are security officers assigned to His Highness King Mohammed Hassan Qagev, pretender to the Peacock Throne of Iran.”

“What?”

“It is true, Ed,” the one who called himself Najar said. “Katelyn’s real name is Princess Azar Assiyeh Qagev, eldest surviving child of the true king of Iran, may God bless him and all true believers.”

Harlow’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You…are you kidding me? Is this for real? Is this some kind of Candid Camera crap?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, Ed, but we’re telling you the truth,” Linda said. “The princess’s family has been in protective custody of the U.S. State Department since Reza Khan Pahlavi took power in Iran in 1925 from the princess’s great-grandfather. The princess is the last of her siblings alive — the rest have been hunted down and killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, the Pasdaran.”

“But if she’s safe here, why take her away?”

“Because we have lost contact with the king, the princess’s father, and his court,” Najar said. “Until we can contact them, Princess Azar is the heir apparent to the Peacock Throne — the Malika, the queen of Iran.”

“Katelyn is…a friggin’ queen?”

“She must make contact with her countrymen as soon as possible to assure her followers that the dynasty is intact and ready to take power should God and events in Iran allow it,” Najar said.

Harlow put a hand on his temple and shook his head, trying to make sense of all this. “I need some sort of verification,” Harlow said. “I don’t know those two, and now I don’t know you. I’m not going to let Katelyn or any of my cadets out of my sight until I’m satisfied everything is in order.”

“Ed, it’s us — it’s still us, the people you know, even though our names have changed,” Lieutenant Saidi said. “We still love and care for Katelyn as if she is really our child. She learned as a youngster not to expect to be treated like a princess while in the United States, and she never has. But now we have to become her guardians again. Her safety is the most important thing now.”

“We appreciate all you’ve done with Katelyn over the years, Ed,” Major Najar went on, “but the charade is over. We have to move to a new location for the princess’s safety.”

“What if I don’t let you take her?” Harlow asked.

Najar looked at Saidi, then grimly at the Civil Air Patrol commander. “We have two men aboard the helicopter, Ed,” he said darkly. “We surrendered our primary weapons to the lieutenant colonel before he agreed to take us to you, but we all have hidden backup weapons which they did not discover. We are prepared to kill every one of you and take the helicopter if you resist.” Harlow was afraid that was going to be his response. He carried a Beretta pistol — loaded but not chambered — and he noticed that both Najar and Saidi glanced to his hip and had probably already decided how they were going to take it away from him. He had no doubt they could do it, too.

“If this is some kind of joke, you two, you just threatened me and all of these children who are on a required training exercise for the U.S. Air Force Auxiliary,” Harlow said seriously. “I’ll see to it that you’re thrown in prison for twenty years if this turns out to be a gag.”

“Ed, call anyone you need to call — but please, do it quickly,” Saidi pleaded. “We brought our State Department liaison and the National Guard unit commander with us — we would’ve brought another helicopter filled with officials if we had the time.”

“Ed, listen to me — we need to go, so you have to make a decision,” Najar said. “The only other fact I can tell you is that if we meant the princess any harm…”

“Stop calling her that,” Harlow protested. “She’s Katelyn, my friend, my subordinate, and out here, my responsibility.”

“…I guarantee you, we would not have hesitated to kill you and all these children to accomplish our mission. We’re out in the middle of nowhere — we could kill all of you right now and we’d be in Canada and halfway to safety before anyone discovered your bodies. That’s what the Pasdaran would have done if they found the princess first.”

“I said, stop calling her that!”

“It’s who she is, Ed,” Najar said. “I think you’ve known that for a long time now yourself, haven’t you?” Harlow said nothing, but he was perfectly correct — he had noticed she was different, and now he knew why. “You’ve seen there is something special about her. She has the courage, the intelligence, and the compassion of a princess — you’ve seen it, as have we and a handful of insightful American teachers we’ve encountered since living in protective custody in the United States.”

Harlow thought for a moment. He looked toward the Black Hawk helicopter and saw one of the two men inside peering back at him, and he knew he had to think of something to verify all this. After a moment, he withdrew his satellite phone from his pocket and dialed his home number — very relieved when he realized that Najar and Saidi, the Iranian bodyguards, allowed him to use the phone. If they were here to harm any of them, that’s the last thing they would have wanted.

“Hello?” Harlow’s wife answered.

“Hi hon, it’s me.”

“Hey. How’s it going out there? Any problems?”

“Nothing too out of the ordinary,” he replied, hoping his wife wouldn’t pick up the tension in his voice — and then again, hoping she would. “Can you do me a favor, sweetie?”

“It’ll cost you tonight, stud.” When he didn’t respond, she turned serious. “Sure, babe. Go ahead.”

“Hop on the Internet and Google something for me, would you?”

“Hold on a sec.” A moment later: “Okay, shoot.”

“We’re discussing the recent stuff happening in Iran, you know, about the military insurgency they’ve been talking about?”

“Yeah.”

“We got to talking about who was in charge of Iran before the clerics. Can you look that up?”

“Sure. One sec.” It did not take long at all: “You mean the Shah? Reza Khan Pahlavi.”

Najar was writing something down on a notepad even before Harlow asked: “How about before him?”

“Hold on.” A moment later: “Got it. Before the Pahlavi dynasty it was the Qagev dynasty, seventeen eighty to nineteen twenty-five. Before them it was the Zand dynasty, seventeen fifty to seventeen sixty-four. Before that…”

“That’s what I was looking for, hon, the Qagev dynasty,” Harlow interrupted. “We were discussing anyone still alive from the Qagev dynasty. Anything on that?”

Najar held up his notepad. It read: “Mohammed Hassan Qagev II, Dallas, Texas, 3 sons, 4 daughters.”

“Hold on,” Harlow’s wife said. “This is fun. Are you still out in the field?”

“Yes.”

“On the satellite phone? Must be costing a fortune.”

“Babe…”

“I got it right here, Mr. Impatient. Yes, there is a guy still alive from that dynasty. His name is Mohammed Hassan Qagev. And how about this? He lives in the United States — in Addison, Texas. He has a Web site where he blogs on what’s happening in Iran.”

“Anything else about him?”

“Lots. His wife looks like Angelina Jolie, big lips, big tits — you’d like her. He has seven kids…no, wait, it says here that all of them were killed by Iranian secret agents in Europe and Asia. How sad.”

“Does it say when?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“Wait, I’m reading…no, nothing much else…hey, this is interesting.”

“What?”

“There’s a picture of him and his wife, from several years ago, and guess what? He’s only got four fingers on each hand!”

“He what? Are you sure?”

“That’s what it looks like…yep, definitely, just four fingers. He’s not even trying to hide it. I think that’s brave of him. Hey, doesn’t one of your cadets, the red-haired girl, have only four fingers on each of her hands?”

“Katelyn. Yes. It’s called bilateral hypoplastic thumb.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for it — it doesn’t mention it here. It’s like…hey, they have a picture of Mohammed’s father, in a British World War Two uniform, and guess what?”

“He has only four fingers too.”

“It’s a little hard to be sure in this photo, but it looks like his right thumb is real short and fused to his index finger. So it must be hereditary, like a royal birthmark thing, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if your cadet, Katelyn, was secretly related to this Mohammed, and living in exile in the United States, hiding out from the Iranian secret police? She’d be, like…”

“An Iranian princess,” Harlow muttered.

“Exactly. How cool would that be?” No response. “Hon, you still there?”

“Thanks for the info.” He thought for a moment; then: “Stay on the line for a minute or two, sweetie, just in case anyone else has any questions.”

“Sure, babe. As long as we’re not paying that satphone bill.”

“It’ll be taken care of, don’t worry. Hold on. Don’t hang up until I tell you to, okay?”

“What’s going on, Ed?” his wife asked, but he had already lowered the phone. Najar and Saidi looked at his stunned expression, then looked at the phone but made no move to take it away from him.

This is insane, Harlow thought, completely unbelievable — but he was beginning to believe it. He turned toward his waiting cadets and shouted, “VanWie! Over here.”

Katelyn trotted over, smiled at Najar and Saidi, snapped to attention, then saluted. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” she said.

“At ease, Lieutenant. With me.” Harlow stepped several paces away from the others.

“Why are my parents here, sir?”

“No questions now, Katelyn,” Harlow said. He turned toward the helicopter and pointed at Hamilton. “Do you know that man over there?”

“He’s a friend of my dad. They work together at the finance company, I think.”

“His name?”

“Mr. Hamilton. I’m not sure of his first name.”

“How about the guy looking out the door of the helicopter?”

Katelyn looked, swallowed hard, then looked at Harlow. “He’s a friend of my dad’s too,” she said nervously.

“A ‘friend?’”

Katelyn looked a little anguished. “What’s happening, sir? Why are my parents here?”

“Katelyn, this is very important,” Harlow said, studying her eyes carefully. “What you tell me next will determine what I’m about to do in the next few seconds, but you have to be completely honest with me or I could do the wrong thing and…and put you in very great danger.”

“Danger?” The apprehension in her face melted away, replaced by concern and steely determination. “What’s happened, sir?” Her voice had changed — markedly so.

“Katelyn, yes or no, and be honest with me: are those two people really your parents?”

“What’s happened, sir?” she repeated, almost a demand now.

“Answer me, Katelyn, or I’m going to grab you and take you and the rest of the squadron back into the woods and call for help.”

“Something’s happened to my parents,” Katelyn breathed. “Hasn’t it, sir?”

“Are these your parents, Katelyn? Yes or no. Tell me.”

Katelyn realized she wasn’t going to get the answers she wanted unless she changed her tactics. “No, they’re not,” she replied. “They are Major Najar and Lieutenant Saidi.”

“What do they do?”

“They are specially chosen members of the King’s Palace Guards, assigned to protect me,” Katelyn said. Harlow’s mouth dropped open, and a roaring sound unrelated to the Black Hawk’s idling turbines began in his ears. “Now tell me what’s happened, sir. My father…?”

“Is missing. They said they’ve come to take you away from here. They…”

“Na baba!” Katelyn shouted in a voice Harlow had never heard from her before except in instances of extreme excitement or tension. “Fori-ei! I’ve got to do something!” She dashed off toward Najar and Saidi, who snapped to attention as she approached.

“Katelyn!”

The girl turned, then stood at attention and saluted. “Pardon me, sir, but I must leave. Thank you for all the precautions you’ve taken on my behalf, and thank you for your leadership and dedication. I won’t forget it.” She dropped her salute, then ran for the helicopter, with Najar and Saidi close behind. The two men inside the helicopter scrambled out and snapped to attention on either side of the Black Hawk’s right door. The last Harlow saw of her, she was pulling a headset over her fatigue cap, gesturing for Hamilton and Lawson to get inside, and pulling the Black Hawk helicopter’s door closed herself.

After the helicopter lifted off, Harlow raised the satphone. “It’s okay, babe,” he said. “I’m heading home now.”

“Ed, I heard some of that,” his wife said anxiously. “What’s going on out there?”

“I’ll explain everything when I get home — or someone will.”

“What do you mean? Ed…?”

“I’ll be home in a few hours, babe. See you,” then reluctantly pressed the red button on the phone.

He was never certain, he thought as he turned and headed toward the other completely stunned cadets, exactly where Katelyn VanWie belonged…until now.

“What can you tell me about my parents, Agent Hamilton?” Azar Qagev asked as soon as she donned her headset.

“The Protective Liaison Division agents assigned to your mother and father found your parents’ home empty early this morning, Your Highness,” Hamilton said. “There’s been no word on any of our message lines. We executed the recovery network established for them but they have not made contact with anyone in the system.” Every foreign dignitary in the United States had a plan established where they would go to a particular city and make contact with a certain individual, usually at a hotel, airport, restaurant, or other such public place in a large metropolitan area, in case of danger. In the meantime, the area would be flooded by agents of the Diplomatic Security Services, Federal Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Secret Service, U.S. Marshals, and other federal law enforcement agencies. Unfortunately, foreign dignitaries who stayed in the United States for long periods of time rarely updated or exercised their plans until it was too late to respond to an attack. “It’s still very early, but we decided to make contact with you and take you to a safe location.”

“Thank you, Agent Hamilton,” Azar said.

“Unfortunately, because your father runs his Internet blog and frequently comments on happenings in Iran, the media is all over this development,” Hamilton went on. “It was only a matter of time before they tracked you down to Grand Rapids. And now that your parents have disappeared, you’ll be the focus of their attention. There’s already been a leak to the wire services that Iranian royalty is being protected in the United States, and the FBI and State Department have already received inquiries. I hope you understand how hectic it’s going to be. The State Department will do all it can to shield your movements from the media, but they are very persistent.”

“I understand, Agent Hamilton.” She thought for a moment, then said to Major Najar in perfect Farsi, “Major, I need to contact the Court immediately.”

“Of course, Malika,” Najar said. “I will…”

“Do not call me that yet, Major,” Azar said. “I am Shahdokht to all until the whereabouts of the King and Queen are positively determined.”

“I apologize, Shahdokht,” Najar said. “Agent Hamilton, when is the first chance we will have to access a secure telephone or Internet connection?”

“We’ll return to Grand Rapids, then take a chartered flight to Minneapolis,” Hamilton said. “The FBI office has loaned us armored vehicles, which will take you to a safe house outside the city. They should have secure communications capability in the vehicles. We’ll arrange a secure satellite Internet link in the safe house if it doesn’t already have it.”

“Very well. Thank you,” Azar said. To Najar, she asked in Farsi, “What’s the latest about the insurgency back home?”

“Confused and sketchy information, Shahdokht,” Najar replied, “but it appears that General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi has launched a major attack on a mosque in Qom that may have been a safe house for a good number of clerics and government officials. Speculation is that he destroyed the Khomeini Library with his captives inside.”

“Bavar nakardani!” Azar exclaimed. “Buzhazi is either completely insane or utterly ruthless — we need to find out which it is. Major, I need the latest information on Buzhazi, the Pasdaran deployments, and our resistance and intelligence networks in-country.”

“Yes, Shahdokht.”

“Buzhazi is blind with rage and power-lust, Shahdokht,” Lieutenant Saidi said. “He and his followers have narrowly managed to avoid complete destruction by the skin of their teeth. They are outnumbered at least ten to one. The Pasdaran will crush them soon enough.”

“No insurgency of any kind has had this much success — and Buzhazi has taken on the Pasdaran directly,” Azar said. “If he succeeds, or even if he ignites the passion of freedom in the people, we can use it to our advantage. We must learn everything we can about Buzhazi’s goals and plans and see if we can join forces with him.”

“Join forces?” Najar asked. “Princess, Buzhazi was the Faqih’s chief executioner not too long ago — he and his minions killed most of your family and drove us out of Europe and the Middle East. He can’t be trusted. It would be better to bide our time and see what happens with this insurgency.”

“If Buzhazi is crushed, the Pasdaran will only grow in power and status, perhaps eclipsing the army,” Azar said. “If the regular army or the people will follow Buzhazi in destroying the clerics, we must be sure we have a seat at the table for whatever else may happen. But we must know what is going on, up to the second.” She fell silent for a moment, then said, “I want you to activate the rud-khaneh immediately.”

Najar’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you certain, Princess?” he asked. “The underground network is secure and has been growing for a decade. If we activate the network and the Revolutionary Guards destroy Buzhazi and discover it…”

“We must know,” Azar said. “It must be done. Our people will just need to take extraordinary precautions and be prepared to go back to ground if the insurgency fails and the Pasdaran start a new purge.”

Najar looked at the princess carefully, then said in a low voice, “Should you not wait to hear from the King, Princess?”

Azar looked at her long-time bodyguard, considering not only his words but the tone. “They’re alive, Major. I would have felt their passing.”

“Then wait a while longer before committing to activating the intelligence network, Shahdokht,” Najar said. He smiled at her. “I’m happy to see you are so ready to take charge, Princess — the lessons we taught you were not lost in the thick mud of Western decadence that you have subjected yourself to for all these years. But use caution. The situation is dangerous for you, but to our friends and supporters back home, it is deadly. When we rise up, we should do it in concert.”

“We will, Major,” Azar said. “But in order to decide when to rise, we need information. If my parents are alive, it is my responsibility to assist them in making the decisions that affect our future.” She squinted back tears, then said, “If they are dead, I’ll need the advice of the network to assess the situation and decide a course of action — whether we support Buzhazi, conduct our own insurgency alongside his, or go back into hiding and await the will of God.”

“Insh’ Allah,” Najar and Saidi said together.

“Insh’ Allah,” Azar echoed. She thought for a moment, then took out a notepad from her Civil Air Patrol battle dress uniform, wrote a note, and passed it to Najar. He took a deep breath as he read it, then passed it to Saidi, whose expression was even more incredulous. “Can you do it, Major?” she asked.

Najar passed the note to the men in the back of the Black Hawk, who looked at each other in surprise, then nodded warily. Najar made a few notes of his own, showed them to Azar and Saidi, then to the men. They all nodded in assent. “It will be done, Shahdokht…insh’ Allah,” Najar said. “If it is the will of God.”

In just a few minutes they were making an approach to Grand Rapids — Itasca County Airport and parked just outside AirWays Aviation, the lone fixed-base operator on the field. Just a few yards away was a Falcon business jet, with a Jet-A refueling truck just pulling away. The jet’s crewmembers watched the helicopter touch down, then moved to the boarding door to help the passengers aboard. Katelyn shook hands with Lawson. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Colonel,” she said.

“Good luck to you, Lieutenant — or whoever you are,” Lawson responded.

“Salam aleikom, agha,” Katelyn said, then shoved open the door and scrambled out.

“The jet’s fueled up and ready,” Special Agent Hamilton said after speaking with the pilot and escorting Katelyn to the boarding door. “Weather is favorable in Minneapolis but traffic is heavy, so we’ll use Flying Cloud Airport instead of the international airport. The FBI is standing by.”

“Wouldn’t it look less conspicuous to go to the bigger airport, Agent Hamilton?”

“Flying Cloud is a pretty busy airport — most bizjets go there,” Hamilton replied. “The FBI thinks it’ll be safer, and you should have less interference from the media.” Within moments they were aboard, the door closed, and they were taxiing to the end of runway 16 for takeoff. With no traffic in the pattern, the jet was airborne within minutes. “Less than a hundred and fifty miles to Flying Cloud, Your Highness — no more than twenty minutes,” Hamilton said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Agent Hamilton,” Azar said. “And I wanted to thank you again for all you’ve done for me. Your service is very much appreciated.”

“My pleasure, Your Highness.”

“So I hope you don’t take offense by what we are going to do.” Azar made a motion with her hands, and her four bodyguards leapt to their feet, guns drawn. Two headed immediately to the cockpit while Najar and Saidi stayed with Azar, their guns drawn.

“What in hell is this?” Hamilton exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“No offense to you or the American State Department, Agent Hamilton,” Azar said, “but putting us into protective custody in Minneapolis is not what we need to do right now for the people of Iran.” She took Hamilton’s sidearm and backup weapon away from him, then turned to Najar and said in Farsi, “Make sure the pilots don’t make any radio calls or change the transponder codes to report a hijacking, Major. Can we file an international flight plan inflight?”

“No, Highness,” Najar said. “We’ll have to fly low over the border and try to go under radar coverage. We risk a military pursuit, but they will not be able to respond quickly enough to find us. We will contact our agents in Canada and arrange for them to meet us at the alternate landing site.”

“Very well.” The plane started turning, and soon the two charter pilots were heading back to the cabin, hands over their heads.

“If you wanted to get out of the United States, Highness, why not just request that?” Hamilton asked angrily. “We would have complied.”

“We want to avoid the media as much as possible and shield our movements from everyone,” Azar said. “Going into protective custody in Minneapolis, with the media all around us, would have wasted time and put my parents in even greater danger.”

“Where are we going?”

“Canada,” Azar replied. “We have agents throughout Canada waiting for precisely this moment. After we’re safely away, we’ll release you and your aircraft.”

“This is completely unnecessary, Highness…”

“Again, Agent Hamilton, I thank you for your concern and dedication,” Azar said sincerely. “But we have been guests of the American government for too long. It’s time the royal family went back to Iran and took our place among our people again.” Hamilton shook his head and sat back. Azar looked at Najar and Saidi and asked in Farsi, “Am I insane for doing this, Major? Lieutenant?”

“Once we place ourselves in the hands of the Americans and their out-of-control media, Highness, we would be at their mercy,” Najar said. “We would be trusting our lives to someone else’s political agenda.”

“What if Buzhazi made a deal for him to cooperate with Washington in forming a government favorable to them — in exchange for turning over you and your family to him, or having us placed in permanent ‘protective custody?’” Saidi asked. “The point is, Highness, that with us in the hands of the Americans, our fate is not our own — it belongs to them and whatever agenda they may have. It will be difficult for us, but at least our fate is in our hands and the hands of your loyal subjects.”

“We are proud of you, Highness,” Najar said. “It took extraordinary courage to do this. It would have been far easier and more comfortable and perhaps safer for you to simply go along with the Americans, but you instead decided to take the initiative and plan your own escape. Now whatever happens is up to God and ourselves. That is the way it should be.”

Azar smiled, nodded, and sat back in her seat. She looked out the window at the flat lake-strewn landscape of northern Minnesota. It was the only place she ever remembered, the only home she ever knew — and now she was leaving it, perhaps forever.

“Are you sad to leave here, Shahdokht?” Saidi asked gently. “It is truly a beautiful land.”

“You have grown strong and wise here, Princess,” Najar added. “There will always be a part of this land in you.”

Azar took one last look, then resolutely closed the window shade and shook her head. “As soon as we can,” she said by way of response, removing her fatigue cap, touching her hair, and holding it out for them to see, “I want some hair coloring so I can get back to my natural-born hair color. I enjoyed being a redhead, Lieutenant, but I’m ready to be a dark-haired Persian again — now, and forever.”