Rogue Forces (26 page)

“Yes, I’m okay, but there was a little incident lately, and I wanted to tell Bradley and you about it before—”

“Good. There’s so much stuff on the news about Iraq and Turkey lately, and we think of you every night when we watch the news.”

“I think of you guys all the time. But early this morning—”

“That’s nice. I gotta run, Patrick. I’m interviewing some pharmacy techs this morning. Steve and the kids send their love. Bye bye.” And the connection was broken.

That’s how most of their phone conversations went, he thought as he hung up his phone: a very brief conversation with his son, a complaint and request from his sister or brother-in-law—usually a request for family time that didn’t involve Bradley—followed by a harried good-bye. Well, what did he expect? He had a young teenage son who had been either dragged around the country or left with relatives most of his life; he didn’t get to see his dad too much, only read about him in newspapers or on TV, usually involving harsh criticism about some questionable involvement in some near-catastrophic global calamity. His relatives certainly cared about Bradley, but they had their own lives to live and they frequently saw Patrick’s escapades as a means of running away from mundane family life back home.

He made some calls to Scion’s headquarters back in Las Vegas about his paycheck; they assured him the “check was in the mail” even though it was always transferred electronically. Then he was patched through to Kevin Martindale, former president of the United States and silent owner of Scion Aviation International.

“Hello, Patrick. Heard you had a tough day.”

“Rough as sandpaper, sir,” Patrick said. One of the code words that employees of Scion Aviation International were taught to use was
sandpaper
—if used in any conversation or correspondence, it meant they were under duress or being bugged.

“Got it. Sorry about the contract being canceled. I’ll try to work things from here, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Do you know if I’m going to be arrested?”

“Sometime tomorrow or the next day. I haven’t seen the warrant, but I expect it’ll be served soon.”

“The Turks were jamming the hell out of us. We had to shut down the plane.”

“Don’t worry about it, just do what they tell you to do and keep silent. You should send your freighter aircraft elsewhere. It won’t be safe in Iraq.”

“We’ll need it to start packing up.”

“It’s risky. The Turks will want it. They may try to grab it when it flies through their airspace.”

“I know.”

“It’s your call. Anything else for me?”

“Some snafu with the paycheck. A deposit that was made days ago was yanked out.”

“No snafu,” Martindale said. “Our accounts have been frozen solid. I’m working that, too, but now we’ve got multiple departments and the White House in on this, so it’ll take longer. Try not to worry about it.”

“Yes, sir.” And the call abruptly terminated. Well, sleep was going to be impossible now, Patrick thought, so he powered up his laptop. Just as he started to surf the Internet and read the news from the outside world, he picked up a call. “McLanahan here.”

“
Patrick
? I just heard! Thank God you’re okay.”

It sounded like his sister Mary calling him back, but he wasn’t sure. “Mary?”

“This is Gia Cazzotto, you ninny—I mean, ninny
sir
,” the voice of Lieutenant Colonel Cazzotto, the commander of the Seventh Air Expeditionary Squadron, said, laughing. “Who’s Mary? Some young engineer in a lab coat and big glasses who transforms herself into Marilyn Monroe when she pulls a pin out of her hair?”

Patrick’s laugh was a lot more strained and high-pitched than he wanted. “No, no, no,” he said, confused that his mouth had suddenly turned so dry. “Mary is my sister. Lives in Sacramento. I just spoke with her. Thought it was her calling back.”

“Sure, sure, sure, I’ve heard that one before,” Gia said. “Listen, Patrick, I just heard about the attack on Nahla, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Jon and I got our bells rung, but we’re okay, thanks.”

“I’m in Dubai right now, but I got permission to come over as soon as they’re letting personnel come up north,” she said. “I want to see you and find out what happened.”

“That would be great, Boxer, really great,” Patrick said, “but I might be shipping out soon.”

“Shipping out?”

“Back to Washington. Long story.”

“I’ve got plenty of time, Patrick. Lay it on me.”

“Not ‘long’ as in time, but ‘long’ as in…a lot of stuff I can’t talk about.”

“Gotcha.” There was a bit of an uncomfortable pause; then: “Hey, our seventh airframe just showed up today here in the United Arab Emirates, and we received our eighth airframe today at Palmdale. This one has got all kinds of weird gizmos in the forward bomb bay, and I figured it had to be one of yours.”

“Did you get it from the Boneyard?”

“No, it was in flyable storage at Tonopah.” Tonopah Test Range was an air base in southern Nevada used for classified weapons tests before an aircraft was delivered to active duty. “It’s got all kinds of fuel lines running here and there through the bomb bays, and something that looks like a car assembly robot with arms and claws everywhere.”

“We had B-1 bombers that could recover, rearm, refuel, and re-launch FlightHawk cruise missiles in-flight. That must be one of them.”

“No shit! That’s cool. Maybe we can put that system together again.”

“I’m sure I can get Jon Masters at Sky Masters Inc. to send you the schematics.”

“Great. Any other cool stuff like that, send it along, too. I’m not getting Air Force acquisition officers and budget weenies hanging up on me anymore when I call to ask about getting money for stuff—they actually seem interested in building bombers nowadays.”

“Probably because they’re taking everything else away from the Air Force other than tankers and transports.”

“I’m sure.” There was another few moments of quiet; then Gia said, “I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“I’m glad you did, Gia.”

“I also hope you don’t mind me calling you Patrick.”

“I’m glad you did. Besides, it
is
my name.”

“Don’t tease me…unless you really
want
to.”

A loud-pitched squeal erupted in Patrick’s ears, and he felt his face flush as if he had said a swearword in front of his sainted grandmother. What in hell was
that
? Did he just
blush
…? “No…no…”

“You don’t want to tease me?”

“No…I mean, I do want—”

“You
do
want to tease me? Oh, goody.”

“No…jeez, Boxer, you’re making me goofy over here.”

“I like a little goofy now and then, too, but I prefer teasing to goofy.”

“All right, Colonel, all right, that’s enough.”

“Pulling rank on me now, General?”

“If I have to,” Patrick said. The chuckle came out like a strangled donkey’s bray.

“Hey, Patrick.”

“Yeah?”

“I really want to see you. What about you? Do you want to see me?”

Patrick felt the flushing in his cheeks turn into a warm spot in his chest, and he breathed it in and let it fill his entire body. “I would really like that, Gia.”

“Mary is really your sister and not Mrs. McLanahan?”

“Really my sister. My wife, Wendy, passed several years ago.” That was only true if you thought being nearly beheaded by an insane female Russian terrorist in Libya could be considered a “passing,” but he wasn’t going to go into that with Gia now.

“Sorry to hear that. I can’t come up there?”

“I…don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Patrick said.

“But you can’t talk about what or why?”

“Not over the phone.” There was an uncomfortable pause on the line, and Patrick said hurriedly, “I’ll know by tomorrow night, Gia, and we’ll arrange to get together then.” He paused, then asked, “Uh, there’s no Mr. Cazzotto, is there?”

“I was wondering if you’d ask,” Gia said with a pleased tone in her voice. “Most guys I run into ask about a spouse
afterward
.”

“After what?”

She laughed. “If you want me to describe it to you in detail, cowboy, settle in and get comfortable.”

“I get the picture.”

“Anyway, before I get distracted: there was a husband, but not since I went back into the Air Force and was assigned to Plant Forty-two. He’s still in the Bay area with our teenagers, a boy and a girl. You have any kids?”

“A boy, just turned thirteen.”

“Then you know how tough it is to be away.”

“Yes.” There was another pause, as if they were silently acknowledging the new bond between them; then Patrick said, “I’ll let you know what’s happening and tell you all about it when we see each other.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“One more question?”

“I’ve got all night for you.”

“How did you get my cell number? It’s not published.”

“Oooh, a secret number? Well, I feel privileged, then. I called Scion Aviation and your friend David Luger gave it to me. Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

“I owe him one.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“In a
very
good way.”

“Perfect. Good night, Patrick.” And she hung up.

Well, Patrick thought as he hung up, this was turning into a very bizarre day—plenty of surprises, good ones as well as bad. Time to hit the rack and see what tomorrow had rigged up for—

Just then, a knock on the door. “Patrick? It’s me,” he heard Jon Masters say. “I brought the report on the number one Loser you wanted to see.”

“C’mon in, Jon,” Patrick said. He hadn’t asked to see any report…what was going on? He heard the outer door open and close, and then the inner door open. “It could’ve waited for tomorrow morning, Jon, but as long as you’re—”

He looked at the doorway and saw none other than Iraqi Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla, standing there!

Patrick put a finger to his lips, and Jaffar nodded that he understood. “How about some coffee, Jon? It’s instant, but it’s okay.” He pulled out a pad of paper and wrote,
????

“Sure, Muck, I’ll give it a try,” Jon said. On the paper he wrote,
New client.
Patrick widened his eyes in surprise and stared at Jaffar, who simply stood at the doorway with his hands behind his back, looking impatient. “Here’s the report,” he said. “The number one Loser is code one. The freighter has a bunch of spare parts, which we don’t need right now—what we’ll need is the room to start hauling our gear out. The Loser can carry a lot of it, but we’ll need more space.”

“We’ll worry about that when the freighter arrives,” Patrick said. He wrote:
Hire Scion?
Jon nodded. Patrick wrote:
When? Why?

Jon wrote:
Tonight. Defend Iraq against Turkey.

How?
Patrick wrote.

Take Nahla,
Jon wrote.

I don’t see how,
Patrick said.

Jaffar’s eyes widened with impatience. He snatched the pencil out of Jon’s hands and wrote,
My base, my country, my home. Help, or get out. Decide. Now.

O
VER SOUTHERN
T
URKEY

H
OURS LATER

“Ankara Center, Scion Seven-Seven, level, flight level three-three zero over reporting point Afsin, estimating reporting point Simak in twenty-six minutes.”

“Scion Seven-Seven, Ankara Center copies, good evening. Expect handoff to Mosul Approach five minutes prior to Simak.”

“Scion Seven-Seven copies.”

The radios fell silent for several minutes until: “Scion Seven-Seven, change to Diyarbakir Approach frequency VHF one-three-five-point-zero-five.”

It was a rather unusual request—they were transitioning well above the local approach control’s airspace—but the pilot didn’t argue: “Roger, Ankara, Scion Seven-Seven switching to Diyarbakir Approach.” He made the frequency change, then: “Diyarbakir Approach, Scion Seven-Seven, level, flight level three-three zero.”

A heavily Turkish-accented voice responded in English: “Scion Seven-Seven, this is Diyarbakir Approach, descend and maintain one-seven thousand feet, turn left heading three-four-five, vectors to Irgani intersection, altimeter setting two-niner niner eight.”

“Here we go,” the pilot said cross-cockpit, taking a deep cleansing breath to control his quickly rising excitement. He keyed his intercom button: “They just vectored us for the ILS approach into Diyarbakir, sir.”

“Question it but take the vector,” David Luger said via encrypted satellite link from Scion headquarters in Las Vegas. “We’re ready.”

“Roger.” On the radio, the pilot said, “Uh, Diyarbakir, Seven-Seven, why the vector? We’re on a priority international flight plan, destination Tall Kayf.”

“Your transition through Turkish airspace has been canceled by the Turkish Ministry of Defense and Frontier Security, Seven-
Seven,” the approach controller said. “You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing at Diyarbakir. Once your plane, crew, and cargo have been inspected, you will be permitted to continue to your destination.”

“This is not right, Approach,” the pilot protested. “Our flight did not originate or terminate in Turkey, and we filed a flight plan. We are not subject to inspection as long as we are only overflying your airspace. If you want, we can exit your airspace.”

“You are instructed to follow my vectors for approach and landing at Diyarbakir, or you will be considered a hostile aircraft and we will respond accordingly,” the controller said. “There are fighters standing by that will intercept you and escort you to Diyarbakir if you do not comply. Acknowledge.”

“Approach, we’re turning to your heading and descending,” the pilot responded, “but I will be messaging my headquarters and advising them of your threat. We will comply under protest.”

“I have been informed to notify you that the American consulate has been notified of our actions and will meet you at Diyarbakir for the inspection and interviews,” the controller said after a lengthy pause. “They will remain with you at all times while you are on the ground and will observe all of our enforcement actions.”