Rogue Forces (20 page)

C
OMMAND AND
C
ONTROL
C
ENTER
, A
LLIED
A
IR
B
ASE
N
AHLA
, I
RAQ

T
HAT EVENING

“Looks like the wheels are getting ready to come off the wagon up in Turkey, doesn’t it?” Kris Thompson said. He was sitting at the security director’s console in the Tank, watching news reports of the security crackdowns taking place in the Republic of Turkey on one of the big screens at the front of the Tank that was always tuned to an American all-news channel. The reports showed police and military forces clashing with protesters in the streets of Istanbul and Ankara. “Hirsiz is crazy. A state of emergency? Sounds like a military coup to me. I wonder if he’s still in charge.”

“Keep the chatter down, Thompson,” Jack Wilhelm said, sitting at his console nearby. “We can all see what’s going on. Put Sensor Eight up front and zoom ten-X.” He studied an image of three delivery trucks driving down a road, the cargo sections swaying noticeably in the turns. “They’re moving pretty fast, wouldn’t you say? Zoom fifteen-X, get a description, pass it along to the IA. Who do they have in the area, Major Jabburi?” The Turkish liaison officer spread out his charts and logbooks, then picked up his telephone. “C’mon, Major, we don’t have all damned day.”

“There is a border patrol unit heading in the opposite direction, about ten miles away, sir,” Major Hamid Jabburi, the Turkish army deputy liaison officer, responded, after a long delay. “They have been notified to investigate the vehicles. They requested we continue monitoring and advise if they turn.”

“Of course—what else do we have to do around here except cater to the IA?” Wilhelm grumbled. “A monkey can do this job.” At that moment Patrick McLanahan walked up to the brigade commander. “Speak of the devil. I gotta admit, General, your pregnant stealth bomber is killer. We’re getting the same amount of looks all over the sector with a fourth of the airframes; we’re saving network band
width, fuel, and personnel; and the ramp and the airspace are less congested.”

“Thanks, Colonel. I’ll pass that along to Jon and his engineers.”

“You do that.” Wilhelm motioned to the television monitor. “So, have you spoken with the veep about the shit happening in Turkey?”

“He’s on his way to Irbil for a meeting with Iraqi, Kurdish, and maybe Turkish leaders,” Patrick said. “He said he’d get an update from us when he landed.”

“Still think Turkey will invade?”

“Yes. More than ever now. If Hirsiz doesn’t have support for war, the only legal way he can start one is by dissolving the National Assembly and ordering it himself.”

“I think that’s crazy, General,” Wilhelm said. “The Zakhu attack was a big screwup, that’s all. The military is in the field because the generals want to show who’s boss and to force the Kurds, Iraqis, and Americans to the bargaining table.”

“I hope you’re right, Colonel,” Patrick said. “But they’ve got a big force out there, and it’s getting bigger every hour.”

“It’s a show of force, that’s all,” Wilhelm insisted.

“We’ll see.”

“Let’s say they do invade. How far do you think they’ll go?”

“Hopefully they might just take Dahuk province and then stop,” Patrick said. “But with this force they’re rushing to the border, they might take Irbil International, besiege the city and half of Irbil province, and force the Kurdish government to flee. After that, they might march all the way to Kirkuk. They could say it’s to protect the KTC pipeline from Kurdish insurgents.”

“‘Besiege’—listen to you, General,” Wilhelm said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Have you ever
been
in a siege, General, or do you just bomb the crap out of places from beyond visual range?”

“Ever heard of a place called Jakutsk, Colonel?” Patrick asked.

Wilhelm’s jaw dropped, first in shock—at himself—and then in shame. “Oh…oh, shit, General, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He had certainly heard of Jakutsk, the third largest city in Russian Siberia…

…and the location of a large air base that was used as a forward tanker base to refuel Russian long-range bombers involved in the American holocaust—the nuclear attack on the United States that killed thirty thousand persons, injured almost a hundred thousand, and destroyed almost all of America’s long-range manned bombers and land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles, just six years earlier.

Patrick McLanahan had devised a plan to strike back at Russia’s land-based nuclear missiles by landing a Tin Man and Cybernetic Infantry Device commando team into Jakutsk, capturing the base, then using it to stage American bombers on precision air raids throughout Russia. The Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov retaliated by attacking his own air base…with nuclear-tipped cruise missiles. Although Patrick’s defenses stopped most of the cruise missiles and allowed most of Patrick’s bomber and tanker force to escape, thousands of Russians and all but a handful of the American ground team members were incinerated.

“When did you acquire this habit of talking first and thinking second, Colonel?” Patrick asked. “Is it just being in Iraq, or have you been working on the technique for a long time now?”

“I said I’m sorry, General,” Wilhelm said irritably—again, aimed directly at himself. “I forget who I’m talking to. And I
could
blame it on being in this shithole for almost eighteen months—that could drive anyone to mouth off, or worse. This is my third tour in Iraq, and I never had a solid handle on the mission—
ever
. They change it every couple months anyway: we’re here to stay, we’re leaving, we’re staying, we’re leaving; we’re fighting foreigners, we’re fighting Sunnis, we’re fighting Shia, we’re fighting al-Qaeda; now we’re maybe fighting Turks.” He paused, looked at Patrick apologetically, then added, “But I won’t blame it on anything but being an asshole. Again, sir, I’m sorry. Forget I said it.”

“It’s forgotten, Colonel.” Patrick looked at the sector composite map, then at the news coverage of the rioting around Turkey. “And you made your point: if the Turks head to Irbil and Kirkuk, they won’t ‘besiege’ them—they’ll level them, and kill hundreds of thousands of people as they do.”

“Roger that, sir,” Wilhelm said. “The final solution to their Kurdish problem.” The intercom beeped, and Wilhelm touched his mike button: “Go…copy that…roger, I’ll tell him. Warhammer out. Listen up, ladies and gents. Division has notified us that the vice president will be on his way to Irbil in about an hour to meet with members of the Kurdistan Regional Government in the morning. He’ll transit our sector before being handed off to Irbil Approach, but Baghdad will be controlling and monitoring the flight and they’ll follow normal VIP and diplomatic flight procedures. General, I’ve been ordered to—”

“I can maintain a detailed watch over the vice president’s flight path for any signs of movement,” Patrick interjected. “Just pass the waypoints to me and I’ll set it up.”

“You can do that
and
maintain a watch on our sector?” Wilhelm asked.

“If I had two more Losers out here, Colonel, I could maintain a twenty-four/seven watch on
all
of Iraq, southeast Turkey, and northwest Persia, and still have a ground spare,” Patrick said. He touched his secure earset. “Boomer, you copy that last?”

“Already setting it up, sir,” Hunter Noble responded. “The Loser we have airborne right now can track his flight inside Irbil province, but I assume you want eyes on the veep all the way from Baghdad, yes?”

“A-firm.”

“Thought so. We’ll have Loser number two on station in…about forty minutes.”

“Fast as you can, Boomer. Move the first Loser south to monitor the vice president’s flight, then place the second one in the surveillance track up north when it gets airborne.”

“Roger that.”

“So we’ll be able to watch his flight from Baghdad all the way to Irbil?” Wilhelm asked.

“No—we’ll be able to track and identify every aircraft and every
vehicle
that moves in seven Iraqi provinces, from Ramadi to Karbala
and everywhere in between, in real time,” Patrick said. “We’ll be able to track and identify every vehicle that approaches the vice president’s plane before departure; we’ll be able to watch his plane taxi out and monitor every other aircraft and vehicle in his vicinity. If there’s any suspicious activity prior to departure or his arrival in Irbil, we can warn him and his security detail.”

“With
two
aircraft?”

“We can almost do it with one, but for the kind of precision we want, it’s better to split the coverage and go for the highest resolution we can get,” Patrick said.

“Pretty cool,” Wilhelm said, shaking his head. “Wish you guys had been around months ago: I missed my youngest daughter’s high school graduation last year. That’s the second time I’ve missed something big like that.”

“I’ve got a son getting ready to go into middle school, and I can’t remember the last time I saw him in a school play or soccer game,” Patrick said. “I know how you feel.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” the Turkish liaison officer, Major Jabburi, interjected on the intercom. “I have been notified that the Aviation Transport Group of the Turkish air force is sending a Gulfstream Five VIP transport aircraft from Ankara to Irbil to participate in joint talks between the United States, Iraq, and my country starting tomorrow. The aircraft is airborne and will be within our coverage range in approximately sixty minutes.”

“Very well,” Wilhelm said. “Captain Cotter, let me know when you get the flight plan.”

“Got it now, sir,” Cotter, the regiment’s air traffic management officer, responded moments later. “Origin verified. I’ll contact the Iraqi Foreign Minister and verify its itinerary.”

“Put it up on the big board first, then make the call.” A blue line arced across the main large-screen monitor, direct from Ankara to Irbil Northwest International Airport, about eighty miles to the east, flying just to the east of Allied Air Base Nahla. Although the flight’s course was curved, not straight, the six-hundred-mile “great circle”
routing was the most direct flight path from one point to another. “Looks good,” Wilhelm said. “Major Jabburi, make sure the IA has the flight plan, too, and make sure Colonel Jaffar is aware.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Well, at least the parties are talking to each other. Maybe this whole thing will blow over after all.”

Things quieted down considerably for the next twenty minutes, until: “Guppy Two-Four is airborne,” Patrick reported. “He’ll be on station in fifteen minutes.”

“That was quick,” Wilhelm remarked. “You guys don’t mess around getting those things airborne, do you, General?”

“It’s unmanned and already loaded and fueled; we just type in flight and sensor plans and let it go,” Patrick said.

“No latrines to empty, box lunches to fix, parachutes to rig, right?”

“Exactly.”

Wilhelm just shook his head in amazement.

They watched the progress of the Turkish VIP plane as it made its way toward the Iraqi border. Nothing at all unusual about the flight: flying at thirty-one thousand feet, normal airspeed, normal transponder codes. When the flight was about twelve minutes from crossing the border, Wilhelm ordered, “Major Jabburi, verify again that Iraqi air defenses are aware of the inbound flight from Turkey and are weapons tight.”

“Jabburi is off the net, sir,” Weatherly said.

“Find his ass and get him back here,” Wilhelm snapped, then Wilhelm clicked open his command-wide channel: “All Warhammer units, this is Alpha, inbound Turkish VIP aircraft ten minutes out, all air defense stations report weapons tight directly to me.”

Weatherly changed one of the monitors to a position-and-status map of all of the air defense units along the border area. The units consisted of Avenger mobile air defense vehicles, which were Humvees fitted with a steerable turret that contained two reloadable pods of four Stinger heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles and a .50 caliber heavy machine gun, along with electro-optical sensors and a datalink
allowing the turret to be slaved to Second Regiment’s air defense radars. Accompanying the Avengers was a cargo-carrying Humvee with maintenance and security troops, spare parts and ammo, provisions, and two missile pod reloads.

“All Warhammer AD units reporting weapons tight, sir,” Weatherly said.

Wilhelm checked the monitor, which showed all of the Avenger units with steady red icons, indicating they were operational but not ready to attack. “Where’s your second Loser, General?” he asked.

“Three minutes from the patrol box.” Patrick flashed the XC-57’s icon on the tactical display so Wilhelm could see it amid all of the other markers. “Passing flight level three-five-zero climbing to four-one-zero, well clear of the inbound Turkish flight. We’ll start scanning the area shortly.”

“Show me the veep’s flight.”

Another icon began blinking, this one far to the south over Baghdad. “He’s just taken off, sir, about thirty minutes early,” Cotter reported. The flight data readouts showed a very rapid increase in altitude and a relatively slow ground speed, indicative of a max-performance climb-out from Baghdad International. “Looks like he’s on board the CV-22 tilt rotor, so he’ll be well behind the Turkish Gulfstream for the arrival,” he added. “ETE, forty-five minutes.”

“Roger.”

Things seemed to be going along routinely—which always worried Patrick McLanahan. He scanned all the monitors and readouts, looking for a clue as to why something might be amiss. So far, nothing. The second XC-57 reconnaissance plane reached its patrol box and began its standard oval patrol pattern. Everything looked…

Then he saw it, and mashed the intercom button: “The Turkish plane is slowing down,” he spoke.

“What? Say again, General?”

“The Gulfstream. It’s down to three hundred and fifty knots.”

“Is he getting ready for descent?”

“That far away from Irbil?” Patrick asked. “If he did a normal approach it might make sense, but what Turkish aircraft would fly
into the heart of Kurdish territory on a normal approach? He’d do a max performance approach—he wouldn’t start a descent until thirty miles out, maybe less. He’s about a hundred out now. He’s drifting south of course, too. But his altitude is—”