Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (135 page)

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

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

“Very well. Carry on.”

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

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

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

“A psych eval…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

QOM, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN

THAT SAME TIME

“Is everyone in position?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, sir. Sorry.”

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

“Gone, sir.”

“To whom do you make your post reports?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

 

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D. C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

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

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