Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (151 page)

“Is that what they teach you here, Cadet?”

“Absolutely, sir. Concepts of asymmetric warfare, commando operations, guerrilla warfare, psychological combat…it is my favorite area of study. We take lessons from all of the guerrilla armies around the world throughout recent history—Hizb' Allah,
Islamic Jihad, Fatah, Hamas, Mehdi Army, al-Qaeda, the Viet Cong, the Tamil Tigers—study them, and adapt them to modern-day scenarios and equipment.”

“Interesting. But what about areas such as air defense, border security, the submarine service, or land warfare?”

“Those are fine areas of study, sir—for women,” the cadet responded. “Fear is the great multiplier, sir. You can detect and pursue a submarine, tank, or aircraft—but no one has yet developed a sensor or defense against fear. Create fear in the mind and heart of the enemy, and you almost don't need a bullet or bomb to kill him.”

“But attacking noncombatants…?”

“All the better, sir. A soldier will not think about his unit or duty if he feels his family is in danger. That gives us the advantage.”

My God, Yassini thought, is this really what the Academy is teaching its students these days? In his day, the Academy taught leadership, history, and tactics, not murder.

“I must do my rounds and report to my superior officer, sir,” the cadet said. “Please stay here if you wish. I will have some tea brought from the mess.”

“Thank you, Cadet. I think I will stay awhile longer. It was a pleasure speaking with you, Cadet Sergeant.”

“The pleasure was mine, sir. Good evening.” He saluted and departed.

A few minutes later, just as Yassini was thinking about heading back to his quarters for the evening, an orderly arrived with a large copper pot of tea and a basket of cups, sugar, and cinnamon sticks. “Thank you, sir,” Yassini said as the orderly poured.

“So, you old fart, the new generation has you a little bewildered and flustered, eh?” the orderly asked. Yassini looked at him in surprise…and saw none other than General Hesarak Buzhazi smiling back at him. He was dressed in servants' robes and pants, but he could see his combat boots under his robe and perhaps the bulge of a weapon underneath. “Disappointed no one wants to fly
helicopters or go up against stealth bombers and smart missiles anymore?”

“What in hell are you doing here, you crazy idiot? The entire country is out looking for you.”

“The Academy is the last place they'd look, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. He looked at Yassini seriously. “I told you they were going to retaliate against you, Hoseyn, and now here you are, on house arrest. Why are you just standing around like some pea-brained sheep waiting for the slaughter? You should get out of here now, before you have more than just one brainless snot-nosed komiteh goon on your ass.”

“Did you kill him too?”

“I didn't have to. He is gone beating off or something—he thought you were just going out on your evening constitutional and left. That's the kind of idiots Zolqadr has working for him. Why the hell don't you get away from here, Hoseyn? They think you're just a scared tottering old man. Save yourself while you can.”

“I should take career management advice from you, the most wanted man in the entire damned country? That would be hilarious if it wasn't so tragic. What in the world are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember? ‘Let's march off a few'—that's what you said. I've been waiting for you ever since.”

“No, I mean, what are you still doing in Iran?” Yassini asked. “Haven't you done enough damage to the country?”

“I'm not finished, Hoseyn,” Buzhazi said. “The Pasdaran is like a typhoon—as long as it's unopposed, even by the smallest hill or tree, it will grow stronger, its path will become more unpredictable, and it will destroy more and more lives. I plan to stop it.”

“You have about as much chance of doing that as stopping a real typhoon,” Yassini said. “Can't you see that?”

“Some things are worth dying for, Hoseyn: freedom from betrayal, freedom from persecution, freedom to live our lives with dignity and honor. I'm doing something about it. What I don't understand is how you can even stand the stench of being around Pasdaran butchers after what happened last night.”

“I heard,” Yassini said gloomily. “Typical Pasdaran tactics—disregard friendly forces in the target area, disregard taking prisoners, and kill everyone in the area. Monstrous.”

“‘Monstrous?' That's all you have to say? There was an entire company of security guards in that warehouse complex, some just teenage conscripts with barely any training! They're all dead! They were obliterated in a massive artillery attack designed to kill every living thing in the entire area!”

“I had nothing to do with planning, authorizing, or executing that attack.”

“I never thought you did, Hoseyn, but the question is: what are you going to do now?”

“What can I do about it?”

“You're the damned chief of staff, Hoseyn!” Buzhazi retorted. “Call out the army, disperse them to operational areas outside the cities, and tell Zolqadr and whoever else is in charge that you will send them into the cities and crush the Pasdaran if they don't lay down their arms and stop this madness!”

“They will never lay down their weapons,” Yassini said. “The fact is, Hesarak, that you have driven them to execute such extreme operations! They would never have done it if you and your insurgent forces had just gotten out of the country instead of embarking on this insane plot.”

“Hoseyn, this is only the beginning,” Buzhazi said. “They will stop at nothing now. They won't just be chasing me—they'll be going after every soldier and soon every civilian that doesn't toe the fundamentalist line just so. You've condemned millions of Iranians to death because of your inaction. And when they're done in Iran, they'll spread out over the entire region, perhaps the entire planet.”

“Don't blame this on me, Buzhazi! It's you who started this, not me! The deaths of the innocents will be on your head, not mine!”

“At least I'm doing something about it, Hoseyn. My death won't be as horrible as the one you are condemning Iran and
the world to with your silence and inaction.” Yassini didn't—couldn't—answer that. “Do it, Hoseyn—now, tonight, before it's too late. Call out the army and disperse them to the countryside. The Pasdaran is too involved in hunting me down to guard every base across the country. You'll only get one chance at this. Do it tonight.”

“That's treason, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “That's a crime, punishable by public beheading.”

“The people and the armed forces will suffer much worse if the ayatollahs unleash the Pasdaran on the cities,” Buzhazi said. “Do it, now.”

Yassini paused…then shook his head, and Buzhazi's shoulders slumped in disappointment. “You realize that I have to report this contact, don't you?” Yassini said instead. “I have no choice. I could be executed just for the very thought of being seen with you.”

“Then why did you want to meet here, Hoseyn?” Buzhazi asked. “I know the reason—you're unsure of what to do. I'll tell you what you should do, my friend—get out and come with me, now. I have a squad with me standing by that can get us all out safely. I have more men ready to get your family out of the capital as well.”

Yassini turned and looked away, out onto the assembly area. “You know I can't do that, Hesarak,” he said after a long, quiet moment.

“You're a fool, Hoseyn.”

“I'm not like you, Hesarak. I believe in my country and its leaders, right or wrong. They may not be perfect—they may not even be right. But I'm a soldier, and I'm sworn to live by my oath and defend this nation. You may think I'm crazy or suicidal, but that's what I have to do.” He took a deep breath, turned, then said, “And part of my duty is to call for the guards and…”

But it was too late—when he turned to look at his old friend, he was gone—most certainly for the last time.

General Yassini took his time walking back to his quarters,
but upon arriving he immediately picked up the phone. He didn't have to dial any numbers—he knew someone was listening and would inform Zolqadr right away. He probably didn't even need to pick up the phone—the entire apartment was probably bugged, like the phone.

“This is General Yassini,” he spoke. “I would like to report contact with a known wanted criminal, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, near the assembly yard duty officer's station on the Imam Ali Military Academy campus, just a few minutes ago. He said he was here with a squad of men. He was dressed as an orderly or kitchen laborer. He did not appear armed, but he should be considered armed and dangerous.”

General Yassini shook his head as he hung up the phone. Poor bastard, he thought—Buzhazi doesn't have a chance, and he still doesn't realize it.

 

ELLIOTT AIR FORCE BASE,
GROOM LAKE, NEVADA

THE NEXT MORNING

“I hope everyone realizes that we're not going to be making this a regular thing,” Hunter Noble said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. He had already bumped his helmet on the canopy a dozen times, and he dreaded having to touch any switch in the cockpit. Not only was he bumping into things, but he wasn't even in his seat—he had been relegated to the mission commander's seat, the dreaded “Guy in Back,” for the second time.

“Quit your complaining, Boomer—I think this is very cool,” “Nano” Benneton said, strapped into the passenger module of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. “I think making you ride bitch every now and then keeps you humble.”

“I let the general fly his mission in the front seat,” Boomer said.
“I'm still trying to live that one down too.” It was also the first time he had ever worn a spacesuit in the cockpit of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, so he was feeling doubly uncomfortable. It was an older-style Skylab-type spacesuit, a design at least thirty years old, the first series of spacesuits not custom-fitted for a particular astronaut—and it felt like it too. Underneath the suit was a thin mesh garment with fluids circulating through tubes to help keep the wearer comfortable, and under the helmet he wore the classic “Mickey Mouse” cap–style headset. The suit was not yet pressurized, and Boomer still had complete mobility in it, but he still groused. He had to put it on hours earlier and seal it up so he could pre-breathe pure oxygen, and then he had to suffer the indignation of having to be helped into the cockpit by Nano and the smiling, laughing ground crew. “I can't see or feel a thing, it's noisy, I can't hear the radios, and it smells. The cockpit pressurization system is just fine.”

“Boomer, if I hear you complain about the suit one more time, you're staying on the ground,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan radioed from the Dreamland command center.

“I know, sir, I know,” Boomer responded.

“Poor baby's got to wear a spacesuit,” Ann Page said, chuckling. She was seated with Nano in the passenger module. “Get over it, Boomer.”

“Hey, you old farts had to wear them all the time,” Boomer argued. “This is the twenty-first century. Our stuff works.”

“Captain, you are about to experience the thrill of a lifetime—enjoy it,” Colonel Kai Raydon said. He was in the front seat as pilot of the XR-A9. Raydon was a little over average height—which meant tall for an astronaut—with short blond hair and quick, piercing blue eyes. Everyone found it amusing that Raydon's fingers were always in motion, as if he couldn't wait to start flipping switches or entering instructions into a computer. “We are going to knock your socks off this morning, I guarantee it.”

Although designed for six passengers, the Black Stallion's passenger module was loaded to capacity with supplies and
equipment, so Benneton and Page had absolutely no room to move about even if they wanted to do so. The rear of the module contained all their supplies, and they were seated in the middle row. The front of the module was mostly occupied by a large flexible tube attached to the top of the module. This was the docking adapter and transfer tunnel. Like many of the systems and procedures they would use on this flight, the adapter had never been operationally tested either. It was definitely going to be a day full of firsts.

“I can't wait, sir,” Boomer said moodily. “Really, I can't.” He checked his readouts when an alert tone sounded. “Computer's started the pre-engine start checklist, crew,” he announced. Things happened quickly after that, and before long the Black Stallion was airborne.

Because this was going to be a different kind of mission, the insertion into orbit was anything but typical. After refueling over the Pacific Ocean as normal, Boomer flew the Black Stallion on a steep climb and descent across the North Pole, then over the Norwegian Sea and North Sea just off the coast of Scotland, where they rendezvoused with another modified KC-77 tanker and refueled once again. They then turned north and cruised off the coast of Norway as directed by the flight computers, awaiting the proper time for orbital insertion. At the proper moment, the Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines flared to life, and the Black Stallion propelled itself once again into space.

It was soon obvious that this was not another typical orbital insertion mission—the boost burn lasted several minutes longer than normal, and the view from the cockpit was completely different. The difference in altitude was striking. “Well, this looks weird,” was all Boomer could say. The sense of altitude and the sight of so much more of the Earth was unnerving, like looking down from a very tall bridge while standing on the edge of a very narrow catwalk.

“Coming up on the last normal orbital abort point,” Dave Luger said.

“Everyone okay?” Boomer asked, forgetting for the umpteenth time that the aircraft commander called for checklists to be completed, not the “Guy In Back. Station check and give me a green light to continue.” At this point if there was some sort of problem they could execute a deorbit burn, come out of orbit, and still have enough fuel to make a normal landing at a good variety of airports. If they went past this point with the main engines still boosting them higher, their options quickly decreased. But everyone reported all systems normal, so they continued.