Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (142 page)

“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.

 

ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE,
GROOM LAKE, NEVADA

THAT SAME TIME

“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 Cen
ter, 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.

 

THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM,
WASHINGTON, D.C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“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 ShÄ«rāzemi 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.