Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (158 page)

“Are they ready to go?”

“Two of them appear to be. One looks like it's damaged; not sure about the fourth. Turlock says we definitely have two CIDs, two twenty-millimeter machine gun backpacks, two forty-millimeter missile backpacks, one ‘Goose' mini-UAV launcher backpack—another very cool gadget that launches these bowling-
pin–sized UAVs out that sends pictures back to the CIDs—and five spare power cells. I think we're good to go.”

“Good, because we're planning a mission to Turkmenistan for tomorrow night,” Dave said.

“Turkmenistan? Jala Turabi? Is he in trouble? Wouldn't surprise me.”

“The general wants to rescue an Iranian princess before she's sent back to Iran, probably to be executed.”

“A princess? Is she cute?”

“She's fifteen years old, you letch.”

“Still cool. Doesn't give us much time to train in the CIDs, though.”

“Do you need more time?”

“I could sure use it,” Hal admitted. “I recommend we send Chris and three Tin Men to Turkmenistan in the Black Stallion—that way I can spend more time in the CIDs. It won't take long to get up to speed on them, but one day is not enough time. I'll be studying the manual on the electronic visor graphics and controls all night as it is.”

“All right—I'll pitch that to General Sparks and see how they like it,” Patrick said. “Get it ready to go ASAP.”

 

BANQUET HALL, IMAM ALI MILITARY
ACADEMY, TEHRAN, IRAN

THE NEXT EVENING

“I am privileged to speak to you tonight on the eve of your commissioning ceremony,” Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces General Hoseyn Yassini said. He was standing before an audience of three hundred senior classmen of the Imam Ali Military Academy, after hosting their pre-commissioning dinner. Although he was still a virtual prisoner in his residence at the Academy, he was permitted
to carry out ceremonial and VIP functions, and he did so with enthusiasm. As always, if the students knew he was there under house arrest, as they certainly must have by now, they showed no signs of any displeasure. “This is one of my many official tasks that I am pleased and genuinely happy to perform.

“For two years now you have been immersed in the important tasks of training and disciplining your minds and bodies for the challenges that lay ahead. You may indeed believe that your reward for two years of Hell in his place is a lifetime of Hell on the battlefield. Well, my soon-to-be fellow officers, that is not just a cute saying—it's the truth. But as your chief of staff, I want to be the first to thank you for your courage and dedication to such a life. I thank you, and your country thanks you. I encourage you to use the knowledge and skills you have learned here to broaden your minds to the world and the challenges that lay ahead. Do not shrink from these challenges, but embrace them.”

Yassini raised a large ornate golden flask, with a winged lion's head and shoulders in front and a funnel-shaped cup in back. “Allow me the honor of toasting the republic's newest officers in the ancient traditions. This is the rhyton, a batu flask dating back to the Achemenid Empire of five hundred
B.C.
, used by the kings of ancient Persia to toast to victory before sending his generals off to battle. Whenever the rhyton was used, the generals of Persia were never defeated in battle.” He raised the gleaming gold flask. “Gentlemen, to our republic's future military leaders, the prayers and thanks of a grateful and proud nation. May you continue to grow in knowledge, courage, and strength.”

He took a sip from the cup, then passed it to the cadet commander, who immediately passed it to his deputy commander without drinking. The deputy touched the rim to his lips but did not drink. He passed it to the cadet operations officer, who also touched it to his lips, then passed it to the commander of the honor battalion. Most of the cadets did not drink from the cup; a few did, and received warning glares and stern expressions from the others.

“And now, my soon-to-be fellow officers, the table and the eve
ning are yours—I have spoken far too much already,” Yassini said. “Enjoy yourselves tonight, but be ready for the parade at dawn. Congratulations again. Allah akbar. Cadet Commander, take charge of your corps.” The cadet commander called the cadets to attention, and Yassini left the dais.

The cadet corps deputy commander escorted Yassini out of the hall and waited until his car was brought around, but Yassini waved the car away, preferring to walk back to his quarters. As he turned and headed off, several men alighted from the car and quickly caught up to the chief of staff. “Well, well, General, that was quite a surprise,” Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps commander Brigadier-General Ali Zolqadr said as he strode beside Yassini. “Is this a new tradition you're starting tonight? Where did you get the rhyton?”

“I requested it from the Museum of Ancient Cultures. Don't worry—the museum will see to it that it's returned safely tonight.”

“I'm not worried about the flask, General, but the spirit in which it was used tonight,” Zolqadr said. “Toasting the cadet corps with alcohol? Such things are strictly forbidden by the Prophet, blessed be his name, and the Faqih has expressly prohibited alcohol of any kind and for any purpose on all official government or religious property.”

“Toasting success and courage with the rhyton is a Persian tradition dating back over two thousand years, Zolqadr,” Yassini said. “The only time it hasn't been used is in the past thirty years, since the revolution. I'm not starting anything new, Zolqadr, just restoring a long-employed honor. The cadets will never forget this night, believe me, even the ones who did not drink.”

“I was relieved to see that most refused to drink, unlike yourself,” Zolqadr said. “They know that alcohol is a corrupting and unholy vice that stains and perverses body, mind, and soul. Pity you fail to recognize that same truth.”

“It's not a truth, Zolqadr—it's a belief,” Yassini said.

“No, General, it's the law, based on teachings and commands handed down to us from God through the Prophet and codified
by the Faqih,” Zolqadr said. “That should be simple enough for you to understand.”

Yassini knew he was never going to win any argument with a zealot—no, make that a fanatic—like Zolqadr, even if his beliefs were based solely on his thirst for power and not true personal faith. “You didn't come here to lecture me, General. What do you want?”

“No, General, I did not. I'm here to place you under arrest for crimes against the Islamic Republic and for conspiracy to aid the enemies of the republic.”

Yassini stopped, and only then noticed the three armed soldiers walking behind him. “You can't arrest me, Zolqadr,” Yassini said. “I report only to the minister of defense or the Supreme National Security Deputate, not to the Pasdaran.”

“Wrong again, Yassini,” Zolqadr said gleefully. “As of tonight, the Pasdaran has once again been detached from its subordinate position in the Ministry of Defense and has been placed directly in the hands of the Director of the Supreme National Security Deputate, where the blessed Ayatollah Khomeini first assigned it and where it properly belongs as an instrument of divine retribution. My orders come directly from the Ayatollah Mohtaz. The Supreme National Security Deputate has charged you with treason and conspiracy to commit treason, and you are hereby ordered to be placed under arrest and confinement pending summary court-martial.”

 

SAPAMURAD NIYAZOV CENTER
FOR PUBLIC LAW AND ORDER,
ASHKHABAD, TURKMENISTAN

THAT SAME TIME

A line of three vehicles, two sedans and one armored troop transport, pulled up to the front of the Sapamurad Niyazov Center for
Public Law and Order criminal justice building in the center of the Turkmeni capital. A squad of soldiers ran out of the building and took up defensive positions around the vehicles, scanning the streets and surrounding buildings for any sign of trouble. Moments later a door on the armored vehicle swung open, followed by the doors to the building, and three persons in handcuffs and leg restraints were led from the building into the armored vehicles. As soon as they were inside, the guards were recalled and the armored vehicle and their escorts sped away.

Unseen by anyone who might be watching the operation—unlikely, since the police enforced a strict dawn-to-dusk curfew in the capital district of the city, punishable by caning—was a second armored vehicle that had slipped in to a fenced official parking lot in the rear of the building. A single guard opened the barbed-wire-topped gate and let the armored car through. The vehicle drove to a dark rear corner of the lot and parked near several other similar vehicles, and moments later the driver alighted and walked away, exiting the lot without turning back. Except for the occasional squawk of a peacock—used in Turkmenistan like a watchdog—the place quickly fell silent once again.

Several minutes later a sedan was admitted through the gate, and it parked a few yards away from the armored vehicle. Two security guards, with AKS-74 assault rifles at the ready, emerged from the sedan and took up guard positions. Moments later, a man in a long coat emerged, went around to the other side of the sedan, and opened the door for Turkmeni president Jalaluddin Turabi.

“Everything is clear, sir,” the chief of Turabi's security detail said. “No sign of them.”

Turabi looked into the darkness outside the floodlit walls and chuckled. “They're here, don't worry,” he said. “They've probably been here for a while.” He walked over to the armored vehicle and rapped on the side door, and a guard inside opened it up. “How are you tonight, Princess?”

Azar Assiyeh Qagev leaned forward in her seat, squinting in the darkness. “Very well, thank you,” she said in passable
Turkmeni, her tone of voice suspicious yet pleasant. “I presume I have the honor of addressing President Jalaluddin Turabi?”

“My staff informed me that you are observant and smart—I see they were not exaggerating,” Turabi said after shaking off his surprise.

“Do you intend on turning me over to the Iranian government without benefit of legal process?” Azar asked.

“As far as Turkmenistan is concerned, you are a citizen of the United States and Turkey, and you have broken no laws in Turkmenistan,” Turabi said. “If Iran has charged you with serious crimes, according to treaty you must be taken before a judge who will hear their arguments. But we have reason to believe your life is in danger, so you will be taken someplace safe until your extradition hearing.”

“I am forever in your debt, Mr. President,” Azar said.

“Why are you in Turkmenistan, Princess?” Turabi asked. “Certainly not to upgrade our cellular phone system.”

“I hope I don't appear ungrateful, sir,” Azar said, “but I don't wish to discuss this without benefit of legal counsel. I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Turabi said, checking his watch. “I was hoping there was some other way I could help, that's all.”

 

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASHKHABAD,
TURKMENISTAN

THAT SAME TIME

“Things look quiet out here, One,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl radioed via the Tin Man battle armor's built-in satellite transceiver. Wohl was hidden at the rendezvous point suggested by Jalaluddin Turabi, observing the area for any signs of danger. “Turabi just showed up. You copy, Genesis?”

“Roger that,” Dave Luger radioed from the Dreamland Battle Management area. “Sorry, but it looks like the drone you launched isn't sending any video, just stills every few minutes. You copy us, Stud Five?”

“Roger,” Hunter Noble responded. He was patrolling the southern section of their landing spot outside of the capital, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. “We lost the video too, so we're all out patrolling the area.” He looked over to where his copilot and mission commander, Captain Wil Lefferts, was nervously pacing, another H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Six's about ready to have a cow, I think.”

“What's wrong, Five?”

“Nothing—it's just quiet as hell out here,” Boomer replied. “Wil—er, I mean, Six—jumps at every little sound.” He peered out through the darkness. His eyes were finally getting night-adapted, and he could see more and more details of their surroundings. “This is a great landing site, guys—a road plenty long for us to land on, lots of cover, far from any major highways, and open space for Stud Four to run around.” Boomer had landed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane outside a large truck parking area several miles outside the capital city of Ashkhabad. The facility appeared to be abandoned—it was easy to find from the air, easy to approach, and easy to touch down. There was a long, wide access road to the west of the complex, and that's where Boomer landed the XR-A9.

“Just keep your eyes open, guys,” Dave said. He didn't voice his main concerns again—the fact that Jalaluddin Turabi had recommended this spot for an insertion—because Dave had already expressed his doubts several times already. He had insisted on, and Patrick had approved, several methods to ensure that their crews weren't walking into a trap:

The powerful sensors on Armstrong Space Station had swept the area twice in three hours prior to landing and cleared the Black Stallion to land, which made everyone feel better. There was a constellation of small NIRTSats supporting surveillance operations
over Iran, and one of those satellites passed over the area every few hours to update the strategic picture of the target area.

In addition, the second XR-A9 spaceplane, launched shortly after Boomer's, had released a Meteor payload re-entry module which seeded four surveillance drones over the area and beamed streaming video images to the Air Battle Force commandos on the ground and back to Dreamland. The drones were positioned over the landing zone and three other key places in the area: central Ashkhabad, including the government center, Hall of Justice, and the Russian embassy; the Turkmeni army barracks south of the city; and Ashkhabad-Berzien Military Airfield west of the city.