Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (160 page)

Jalaluddin Turabi got out of his sedan. “I am sorry to do this, Master Sergeant Wohl,” he shouted in halting English, looking carefully around him for any sign of trouble, knowing the American could hear him, “but the Iranians were most insistent on keeping custody of the princess and having her reveal her network. But what they would really like is you. Apparently they were impressed by your performance in Qom not long ago, and they wish to inspect your armor technology up close. If you don't want to see the girl and her bodyguards slaughtered before your eyes, come out here, now.” No response, only the sounds of more Iranian Revolutionary Guards swarming the area. “You have no chance of escape, Master Sergeant. You've come an awfully long way just to see the princess die and your missions fail. The Iranians don't
want you—they want your armor, weapons, and aircraft technology. You will be saving lives if you cooperate. I have received their assurances that they will let you and your men, here and at the truck farm, leave the country unharmed if you drop your weapons and remove your armor. Surrender now and…”

At that moment there were three simultaneous explosions right in front of Turabi as the three Iranian armored vehicles blocking the entrance to the parking lot disappeared in massive clouds of fire and smoke. Turabi was knocked off his feet by the triple blasts. After finding himself dazed but unhurt on the ground, he picked himself up and took cover behind his sedan, away from the burning vehicles.

Through the sounds of burning and popping metal, Turabi heard another series of noises, ones he had heard a long time ago but remembered as clearly as yesterday—brief screams, occasional gunshots, followed by a sickening, gory crunching sound and a loud THUD! somewhere off in the distance. He didn't hesitate, but immediately whirled and started running down the street…

…only to be stopped after just a few strides by what felt and looked like a steel wall that suddenly appeared directly in front of him. Turabi ran headlong into the obstruction and fell flat-out backward, semiconscious.

When he could see straight again, he was staring up at Qagev, Najar, and Saidi looking down at him—and standing beside them was one of the American Tin Men, its helmeted face, smooth armor, and massive tank-killing weapon making it look even more the wraithlike avenger he knew it was. The armored figure knelt beside him. “Kill me, Wohl,” Turabi said, coughing up blood from a smashed nose. “Get it over with.”

“Why, Turabi?” Chris Wohl asked. “Why did you cooperate with the damned Iranians? McLanahan was your friend.”

“‘Friend?' He abandoned me in this hell-hole, surrounded by thousands of damned Iranians,” Turabi said weakly. “I barely escape one assassination attempt by those bastards every week. Half my government has been paid off by Iran, and the suburbs outside
the capital are swarming with Iranian-trained insurgents all waiting to sweep in and take over. The only way I could survive after becoming part of this damned government was to cooperate with them.”

“You told them about us, about the Air Battle Force?”

“I told them you would be rescuing the princess, and they thought they could capture you and your spacecraft,” Turabi said.

“Shit,” Chris swore, rising to his feet. He spoke through the Tin Man battlesuit's built-in satellite transceiver: “Stud Four.” No response. “Stud Four, how do you copy?” Still no response. He cursed himself for not checking in more often with the XR-A9 Black Stallion crew. “All Stud units, report back to the landing zone on the double and assist Stud Four. Prepare to engage hostile forces.” He received two acknowledgments. He knelt down again and stuck his helmeted face close to the stricken Turkmeni president's. “Why didn't you ask for our help, Turabi? The general would have sent an entire army to help you. He would have taken you out of here if that's what you wanted.”

“I'm an Afghan and a soldier, Wohl, not a charity case,” Turabi said. “The Iranians offered me a life back in Afghanistan—money, weapons, and assistance in raising an army again in my own homeland. All I had to do was help them capture you, then turn over control of the government to their hand-picked Islamist puppet. McLanahan offered me a pat on the head and nothing else except virtual captivity here in this miserable dustbowl.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. “What are you going to offer me now, Master Sergeant?”

“Just this, you fucking coward,” Chris Wohl said darkly…then delivered a single blow to the Afghan's face that penetrated all the way down hard enough to crack the pavement below his head. Azar and her bodyguards watched as Turabi's head exploded like a ripe tomato under a sledgehammer. Wohl wiped his left fist off on Turabi's robes, then stood and faced the three
Iranians. “I'll escort you to the outskirts of the city,” he said, “then I have to see to my troops.”

“No,” Azar said. “Tell us where your forces are, and I will send my people to help.”

Chris thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Outside an abandoned truck farm fourteen kilometers east of Niyazov Airport,” he said.

“How soon can you get there?” Azar asked.

“Faster than you,” Chris said.

“Then go—do not worry about us,” Azar said. “We will make contact with our network, then dispatch someone to help.”

“My mission was to be sure you got safely out of the country.”

“Your mission has changed, Master Sergeant,” Azar said. “Go.” Chris needed no more convincing. In the blink of an eye he had leaped into the night sky and was gone from view. “Extraordinary,” Azar said to Najar and Saidi. “Whoever neutralized weapon systems such as that much be extremely powerful.”

“The Pasdaran want you very badly, Shahdokht,” Najar said. “We must get out of this city as quickly as possible.”

“Not before we help the Americans,” Azar said. “Contact the network immediately.”

Azar and her bodyguards took Turabi's sedan, and they encountered absolutely no difficulties traveling through the city—the vehicle was instantly recognized by the police on patrol, who did nothing more than salute the vehicle as it drove past. Ten minutes later, easily negotiating the nearly deserted streets of Ashkhabad, they came to the Niyazov Thirtieth Anniversary Racetrack on the eastern side of the capital, and made their way to the stables, where they met up with dozens of members of the Qagev monarchy's underground support network.

“Any news of my parents?” Azar asked.

“None, Shahdokht,” the network leader replied. “Some reports said they were intercepted in Paris by the Pasdaran. We simply do not have any first-hand information.”

“We must proceed on our own, assemble the Court and the war
council, organize the militia, and prepare to take action should the opportunity present itself,” Azar said. “But first we have a debt to repay.”

They found the truck farm about ten kilometers east of the racetrack. The entire area was deserted, but it did not take long for Azar and her entourage to notice the smell of burning jet fuel, metal…and human bodies. Their vehicles bumped across craters made by high-explosive detonations, and small fires were still burning everywhere. The underground fighters drew their weapons as they approached the worst of the battle-ravaged area. “No,” Azar ordered, sensing danger nearby. “Lower your weapons. The enemy has already left…or has been dispatched.” She got out of the sedan and approached the center of the devastated truck parking lot. “Master Sergeant? Are you here?”

“Yes,” an electronic voice replied. Chris Wohl emerged from his hiding spot atop a forty-foot trailer and lowered his electromagnetic rail gun. “You came after all.”

“I said I would,” Azar said softly. “I would not abandon you after you rescued us from the Iranians. I have two squads of fighters and transportation with me. What happened here?”

“Turabi told the Iranians where we'd land,” Chris said. “They waited until my advance team left the area, then attacked. They captured one of my commandos and several pieces of our aircraft. My man destroyed several of their vehicles and at least a platoon of Pasdaran, but he's missing now. The aircraft crew is missing.”

“Shahdokht, inja, inja!” one of the monarchists cried out in a low voice. “Here! Here!” Chris Wohl moved in a flash. The Iranian partisan pulled bits of flaming wreckage and heavily burned and blackened bodies out of a shallow crater beside a concrete pump house, revealing two men lying together, smoke still curling from their bodies. “Baz-mandeh! Nafas-e rahat!”

“A survivor!” Azar said. She dashed over behind the tall figure in gray. It was a young man, holding another young man in a protective embrace. The second man's body was riddled with bullet holes.

The tall armored commando removed his helmet, revealing
a lean, craggy face filled with concern. “Captain! Can you hear me?” Chris asked.

The younger man opened his eyes, blinking away dirt and blood encrusting his vision. The man began to push Chris away in wide-eyed panic, and Azar knelt before him, scooped him up, and held him closely. “It's okay, Captain, it's okay,” she whispered. “You're safe now.” She looked at Chris. “What's his name?”

“Hunter,” he replied. “Everyone calls him ‘Boomer.'”

“Boomer. I like that name,” Azar said. She held him tighter until he stopped struggling, then started to probe for wounds. “It's okay, Boomer. The master sergeant is here. We're going to take you to safety.”

“Ch-Chris?” Boomer asked. His wits were quickly returning. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, sir. Can you tell us what happened?”

“They clobbered us before we could do anything,” Boomer said. “Just when you reported in position at the pickup point, they swooped in. Your guy Sergeant Max—sorry, I don't know his full name—fought like a berserker, man. He was moving so fast, I thought there was three of him. He shot up most of the attacking vehicles, then started mowing down the ground forces, but…Jesus, there were too many of them.” He looked at his arms and saw the corpse he was still cradling. “Whoever they were, they blasted the Stud apart. I got Wil out in time, but they got him too.”

“Enough, Captain,” Chris said. “You're safe now.”

“But I think they got the Stud—or whatever they didn't blow apart…”

“Don't worry about it, Boomer,” Azar said. “We'll see to it that your comrade and yourself are safe.”

Boomer looked at the girl holding him. “The princess, I presume?” he asked. “At least your mission was successful, Master Sergeant. I like your accent, Princess. Wisconsin?”

“Minnesota,” Azar said. She motioned to the partisans, who
took the dead crewmember from Boomer's arms. “Can you walk, Boomer?”

“I think so.” He struggled to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, then nodded. “I'm okay.”

“Then let's get out of here,” Azar said. “The Pasdaran will be after us.”

“Where are we going?”

“Iran,” Azar said. “We'll make contact with our freedom fighters and the Court. Once we're inside the network again, we'll get you back to the United States right away.”

“The captain will go back,” Chris Wohl said. “My men and I are staying with you.”

“You don't need to do that, Master Sergeant…”

“Those are my orders, ma'am,” Chris said. “Until I'm relieved or given further orders, I'm staying with you.”

“You would abandon your superior officer…?”

“He's a pilot, ma'am,” Chris Wohl said flatly. “He may be a very good pilot, but he's still just a pilot. My orders did not include baby-sitting the pilot…”

“Jeez, thanks, Master Sergeant,” Boomer moaned.

“…but to accompany you and your men to Iran, collect intelligence data, report back to my headquarters, and await further orders.”

“Your men are injured and captured, Master Sergeant,” Azar said, confused. “Why do you want to stay with me?”

“My commanding officer believes you're the key to the future of Iran, Princess,” Chris said. “He does not support General Buzhazi's military insurgency, and he wants more information on you and your monarchist movement. My mission is to give him the information he wants and to stand by with you in case he has further orders.”

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“I'd rather not give you that information, Princess,” Chris said. “He's a powerful man, but no one else believes that either the military insurgency or an underground monarchy will survive the
Pasdaran's rampages. My mission is to give him the information he needs to convince my government to support you…or not.”

Azar smiled and nodded. “That's fair, I think,” she said. “My mission is to get us to safety inside Iran, convene the Court and the council of war, assemble the army, and march on to Tehran. Hopefully we can make contact with General Buzhazi and find out what he has in mind. Perhaps our forces can work together…perhaps not. We shall find out together, won't we?”

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

A SHORT TIME LATER

“So, you got your wanker slammed in the drawer, eh, McLanahan?” Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner said as he took his seat in the White House Situation Room. Patrick McLanahan was on a secure videoconference connection from the Battle Management Room at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada. “I guess your Tin Men aren't as tough as we all thought if a bunch of ragheads with RPGs can take them down.”

“Sergeant Dolan took on four squads of mechanized infantry and destroyed three of them before they finally got him, sir,” Patrick said. “He died saving two of our crewmen.”

“Of course, of course—no disrespect to the sergeant or to the copilot that perished,” Gardner said quickly. “What I was trying to say, McLanahan, is that you should have known that your Tin Men aren't supermen. You should have realized that leaving just one to guard a three-billion-dollar jet wasn't going to hack it, and you should have called on more special ops forces to assist.”

“There wasn't time, sir.”

“That's getting to be a very tired old album, McLanahan,” Gardner sighed wearily, “and I for one am starting to get tired of listening to it. There's never enough time when it comes to you and your operations, is there?”

At that moment a staffer in the room noticed a flurry of movement outside the room. National Security Adviser Sparks entered
the Situation Room, followed by Chief of Staff Minden, Vice President Hershel, and then by President Martindale. The staffer called the room to attention. “Seats,” the President said immediately. He turned to the videoconference screen. “Sorry to hear about your loss, Patrick. What do you think the Iranians got?”

“They got Sergeant Dolan, one Tin Man battle armor system with the exoskeleton probably mostly intact, plus plenty of photographs, maybe a few composite material samples, and some electronic gear and computer modules, sir,” Patrick responded. “The communications, transponders, and computers are programmed to auto-erase whenever the emergency shutdown order is given or initiated by the computer in case of an accident or attack, but it's not foolproof.”

“Is there any kind of self-destruct mechanism?”

“No, sir—that's too dangerous in a spacecraft normally subject to very high heat and stresses. Master Sergeant Wohl destroyed any electronic components by hand that he could find or that were pointed out to him by Captain Noble; wearing the Tin Man suit, that would have been done very quickly and effectively. But the Iranians may still be able to recover any data or programming stored in the components they seized.”

“What about Sergeant Dolan and the suit he was wearing?”

Patrick looked uncomfortable, almost pained, but he kept his head and shoulders straight as he replied, “We're hoping that the RPG rounds and the 105-millimeter tank round that killed Sergeant Dolan destroyed most of the armor and electronics in the suit. But the Iranians have taken a very valuable piece of hardware along with the body of a U.S. soldier. They need to give all of it back immediately or face the most severe consequences.”

“That's not your call, McLanahan!” Jonas Sparks retorted loudly. “We're in this mess because you didn't plan properly, and you're not going to even think about doing anything to recover what was taken without full presidential authority!” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Jesus, this could be the worst compro
mise of highly classified technology since John Walker or Robert Hanssen.”

“Those guys were spies and traitors—the Black Stallion was attacked by Iranians inside Turkmenistan,” Vice President Maureen Hershel said. “There's a big difference.”

“What I meant was, the damage done due to the loss of our most sensitive and cutting-edge technology is much worse, Miss Vice President,” Sparks said. Maureen scowled at the national security adviser but said nothing.

“Sir, I wanted to update you and the national security staff on developments in Iran,” Patrick said. “We'll have to deal with the loss of the Black Stallion and Tin Man technology later.” The President looked perturbed and grim, but nodded.

“First, we've located about a dozen forward-deployed launch sites or hiding spots for as many as a hundred medium- and long-range Iranian missiles,” Patrick said. “The Iranians have deployed a large number of decoys but we've been able to separate most of them out. We believe they might have another six to ten more launch sites in other locations. We discover at least one new site per day so I feel confident we can find the rest soon.

“The Air Battle Force has the capability of neutralizing the Iranian missiles in three ways: by destroying as many launchers as possible with air and ground strikes; by hitting missiles in the boost phase with our AL-52 Dragon airborne laser; and by hitting more in the cruise phase of flight with air-launch anti-ballistic missiles,” Patrick went on. “Although we can have the ground units in place quickly, it'll take two days at least for the full force to get set up over Iran and ready to strike.”

“How many of the dozen sites do you think you can take out, McLanahan?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked.

“Conservatively, with our full force in place: fifty percent,” Patrick replied. “We coordinate the spaceborne, air-breathing, and ground attacks, and make sure our anti-ballistic missile aircraft are over the likely launch and target areas when the attacks begin.”

“Fifty percent? I don't think that's good enough to risk a
larger-scale war in the Persian Gulf, Patrick,” Vice President Hershel said.

“We'd limit our attacks to the heaviest missiles we can find, the ones that can threaten our forces or our allies in Iraq, the Middle East, or Central Asia,” McLanahan said. “Thanks to Colonel Raydon in Armstrong Space Station and the NIRTSat constellation we launched in support of our ground operations, we've located a half-dozen possible missile launch sites in the western and southern sections of the country, containing approximately a hundred medium- and long-range rockets and missiles, including the Shahab-2, Shahab-3, and possibly the Shahab-4 and -5 long-range missiles.

“However, although the recon data is updated regularly, we might not know in time if a mobile launcher missile has been moved,” Patrick went on, “so we would need to place some eyes in the sky to keep constant watch on the known or suspected launch sites. We would use the Black Stallion spaceplanes and the Megafortress bombers to launch small unmanned aerial vehicles over the launcher sites. These drones can stay aloft for almost two days and send back real-time videos of the launch sites. If they move, we'll know about it. Once the Black Stallions and Megafortresses are on station, they can destroy any Iranian missiles within minutes.”

“So now we're sending manned and unmanned aircraft and armed spaceplanes over Iran,” Maureen Hershel summarized, “and attacking Iranian missiles, all without a declaration of war or even a certain threat to any American or allied forces? Are we sure we want to be doing this?”

“Miss Vice President, that's a decision for the national security staff,” Patrick said, his eyes narrowing a bit at Maureen's question. “But all the intel and information we're receiving tells me that the Iranian leadership will order the Revolutionary Guards to use their missiles again if Buzhazi stages another attack, which if he survived the attack on Arān he will most certainly do…”

“That's my point, Patrick: should we attack the Revolutionary Guards, or even have strike aircraft over Iran in the first place, if
we think Tehran will just attack insurgent forces inside its own borders?” Maureen asked. “My opinion is, we should not. Iranians killing Iranians is tragic and despicable, but it's not a reason for us to go to war. Theirs is not an act of war…ours most certainly would be.”

“Maureen…er, ma'am, I'm informing the national security staff that I have forces in place that I think have a very good chance of taking out Iran's long-range missile force,” Patrick said, painfully aware that he was speaking much more sharply at Maureen than he liked. “I'm not guaranteeing that I can neutralize Iran's Revolutionary Guards or even neutralize all their missiles—all I'm saying is, I can send my forces into action in hours and reduce Iran's ability to threaten its neighbors or attack its own people. All I need is a decision from this group whether or not to send me in and do it.”

President Martindale looked at his vice president, then over at Patrick quizzically. “I thought you two would have a closer meeting of the minds,” he said in a quiet voice. He turned to the Secretary of State. “Mary, get in contact with someone in charge in Tehran. I want to impress on them the seriousness of the situation here. And prepare a statement for the allies, informing them of the capture of one of our commandos and that we are contemplating a military response.”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary of State Mary Carson said. She picked up her phone on the conference table, gave instructions to the Signals officer and then to her staff at the State Department, then hung up to wait for a callback. “The U.S. affairs office in the Swiss embassy in Tehran informed us that they have been dealing with an Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, who is the chief military adviser to President Ahmadad, similar to our national security adviser—he's apparently the senior leader in the government, or the one picked to stay in public view. I asked to speak with him directly. My staff is drafting an urgent flash e-mail to NATO and the Gulf Cooperative Council states.”

“Who do you have inside Iran right now, Patrick?” Maureen asked.

“Master Sergeant Wohl is still in Iran, traveling with the Qagev princess,” Patrick said. “Captain Noble and the body of Captain Lefferts are somewhere in Khorāsān province with Qagev partisans, awaiting exfiltration.”

“What? You left Noble with a bunch of unknown Iranian revolutionaries?” Gardner retorted. “Why didn't the master sergeant go with him?”

“It was Master Sergeant Wohl's decision, and I reluctantly authorized it,” Patrick said. “Wohl's mission was to rescue the Qagev leadership from the Iranians, return them to their underground network, stay with them, and report back on their capabilities, organization, and progress. Captain Hunter is needed back at Dreamland to fly the Black Stallion spaceplanes—they're headed in opposite directions. We decided the best course of action was to trust Boomer with the partisans.”

“You trust the Qagevs so much that you'd risk Noble's life with those Iranians?” Maureen asked. “Noble would fetch a hefty bounty if they decided to turn him over to Ahmodod.”

“It was a risk we had to take, ma'am,” Patrick explained. “We're in constant communications with Captain Noble, and we know exactly where he is through his hypodermal transceiver. An Air Force Special Operations team is en route from Afghanistan to meet up with them—they should rendezvous in less than two hours from now. He'll be flown from Herat, Afghanistan back to the United States aboard a Black Stallion spaceplane. He'll be home about six hours from now.” The President and most of his advisers in the Oval Office shook their heads at that news, hardly believing that someone could be taken from the middle of nowhere in western Asia back to the United States so quickly.

Secretary of Defense Gardner, however, was not impressed. “Any more forces in Iran?” he asked accusingly. “What about in the region? Who else have you sent out that way, other than a ten-billion-dollar space station and several dozen mini-satellites?”

“I deployed exactly what I briefed the national security staff earlier, Mr. Secretary,” Patrick said. “I ordered two EB-1C Vampire flying battleships deployed to Diego Garcia. They should arrive in about fourteen hours. They are carrying Condor special ops transport aircraft, each with a force of two Tin Man and CID ground units. They can be armed for suppression of enemy air defense, ground attack, or anti-air missions after they deploy the Condor transports. I have one AL-52 Dragon anti-missile laser aircraft deployed to Diego Garcia as well.”

“So you propose to locate and destroy all of the Iranian ballistic missile sites with four commandos, three bombers, and two spaceplanes?” Gardner asked incredulously. “It's not possible. And do you expect to do all this without the Iranians finding out about it and screaming bloody murder? What if they discover your guys or your stealth bombers, fear we're executing an all-out attack, panic, and decide to launch every biochem and nuke they have at Israel, Bahrain, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait? Will your toys stop them? If one nuke gets through and hits just one city like Tel Aviv or Doha, an entire nation ceases to exist. A dozen supertankers pass within Iranian anti-ship missile range every day. Are you going to take all those missile sites out as well too?”

“My concern is with Iran's ballistic missiles…”

“Why are they more important than Iran's anti-ship missiles or weapons of mass destruction, General?” Gardner retorted. “You've lost perspective here, General.” He turned to the President and went on, “Mr. President, McLanahan's plan is impressive and very high-tech, and we've all seen his weapons' effectiveness over the years, but unless we take the time to mobilize follow-on and defensive forces, we're leaving ourselves wide open to disaster. An Iranian counterattack could be devastating.”

“But if we do nothing, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards strike…”

“Then they'll have the blood of their own people on their hands,” Maureen said. “But if we strike, and the Iranians retaliate,
we could possibly lose millions of friendly forces and allies. It's too big of a gamble, Patrick.”

“But if we do nothing, we may be passing up our best chance of assisting a people's revolution in Iran,” Patrick said. “Master Sergeant Wohl is traveling with the Qagev princess, and according to his reports the Qagev have a sizable political, civil, and military infrastructure in place…”