Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (211 page)

“We're getting all the information we can, and we'll prepare a briefing for the leadership that we'll give first thing in the morning,” the President said. “McLanahan is going down, I promise you, and so is his entire command. He won't be so popular after people find out what he's done. We won't have to look like we're destroying a national hero anymore—he's taking
himself
down.”

“We need all the facts first, Mr. President,” Barbeau said, her mind racing, trying to make sense of this explosive news. “Why exactly did he launch those bombers? McLanahan doesn't do something for no reason.”

“It doesn't matter one bit to me, Stacy,” Gardner said. “He's disobeyed orders, ignored my authority, and now he's launched military strike missions overseas, stolen military property, moved and directed military forces without authority, and opposed our own and allied military forces. For all we know, he could be engineering a military coup against the government or even preparing a military strike against Washington. He has to be stopped!”

“Whatever our response is, Mr. President, I suggest we find out all we can first, carefully discuss it, formulate a plan, and carry it out together,” Barbeau repeated. “I know your military forces are an executive responsibility, but it would be easier to do what we have to do if we are together on this beforehand.”

“Agreed,” the President said. “We should meet and discuss strategy, Senator, after we present our findings. Tonight. Private meeting in the Oval Office.”

Barbeau rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man's greatest general just stole some bombers and captured a Turkish air base, and all the man could think about was canoodling with the Senate majority leader. But she had been suddenly thrust onto the defensive, especially after her statements to the press, and the President had the upper hand. If she wanted any chance of retaining her bargaining position for the space force funds that were certainly going to be freed up soon, she had to play his game…for now. “The Senate has a full schedule, Mr. President, but I'm sure I can…squeeze you in,” Barbeau said, flipping the phone closed.

“What in the world happened?” her aide, Colleen Morna, asked. “You look as pale as a ghost.”

“Possibly the worst thing imaginable…or it could be the best,” she said. “Set up a meeting with the President after the last agenda conference tonight.”

“
Tonight?
It's already past five, and you have that meeting with that law firm that represents those defense and technology industry lobbies at seven. That was scheduled to last until nine. What's the President want? What's going on?”

“We all
know
what the President has got on
his
mind. Set it up.”

“It'll be another late night, and with the Armed Services Committee hearings starting tomorrow, you'll be running ragged. What's so important that the President wants to meet so late? He still wants to take McLanahan to the woodshed?”

“Not just to the woodshed—he wants to bury the whole damned ax in his chest,” Barbeau said. She filled her in quickly, and soon Morna's expression was even more flabbergasted than her own. “I don't know precisely what happened, but I think I know McLanahan: he's the definition of a goody two-shoes. If he hit something in Iran, he probably had spot-on intelligence that something bad was going down, and he didn't get the green light to take it out, so he did the deed himself. Gardner should be
encouraging
him, not taking him on. But the President wants to show he's still in charge and in control, so he's going to destroy McLanahan.” She thought for a moment; then: “We need to find out exactly what's happened, but not from Gardner's perspective. We need our own intel on this. McLanahan's not crazy. If we come to his rescue, we might come out on top of this after all.”

“Now you
want
McLanahan to win, Stacy?” Morna asked.

“Of course I want him to win, Colleen, but I want him to win for
me,
not just for himself or even for the country!” Barbeau said. “He's a genuine hero, a knight in shining armor, as Gardner puts it. Gardner's pride is hurt, and he's not thinking clearly. I need to find out what he has in mind, even if it means doin' the dirty with him whenever the First Lady is on the road, but then we need to find out what
really
happened and plan our own strategy. I gotta keep my eye
on the prize, honey, and that is getting contracts and perks for my buddies in Louisiana.”

“What if he's really flipped out?”

“We need to find out what happened to McLanahan and what he did out in Iran, and
fast,
” Barbeau said. “I'm not going to blindly side with the President and oppose McLanahan unless the guy really has flipped out, which I seriously doubt. Get on the horn and find out all you can about what happened. You still in contact with the space playboy buddy of his…what's his name?”

“Hunter Noble.”

“Oh yes, the luscious Captain Noble, the young space cowboy. You need to pump him for information, but not make it sound like it. You still screwing him?”

“I'm one of a very long line of Hunter Noble East Coast screwees.”

“You can do better than that, child,” Barbeau said, giving her a pat on the back and then a discreet one on the butt. “Don't just be another squeeze—be his wingman, his confidante. Tell him the Senate Armed Services Committee is going to look in on goings-on in Dreamland, and you'd like to help. Warn him. Maybe he'll give up some useful information.”

“It'll be tough to meet up with the guy if he's flying around in space, stuck in that base out there in the desert…or in prison.”

“We might have to plan a fact-finding trip to Vegas soon so you can
really
put the squeeze on him. Maybe I'll get to join in too.” She paused, savoring the thought of a three-way with the Air Force playboy. “Tell him that if he cooperates, we can keep his tight young ass out of prison.” She smiled and added, “And if he doesn't cooperate, get me some dirt on the boy that I can use against him. If he won't play nice, we'll use him to start dismantling McLanahan and the rest of those characters at Dreamland.”

 

T
EHRAN
M
EHRABAD
A
IRPORT
, T
EHRAN
, D
EMOCRATIC
R
EPUBLIC OF
P
ERSIA

E
ARLY THAT EVENING
, T
EHRAN TIME

The motorcade of armored Mercedes sedans and limousines sped down Me'raj Avenue toward Mehrabad International Airport unhindered by roadblocks. All along the motorcade route, General Buzhazi had his troops take down the checkpoints and barricades just before the motorcade arrived, let it pass, then hurriedly put them back up. The heavy troop presence throughout western Tehran that night kept citizens and insurgents away from the main thoroughfares, so few got to see the extraordinary procedures.

The motorcade bypassed the main terminal, where Buzhazi had set up his headquarters, and instead moved quickly down a taxiway and out to a row of Iran Air hangars. Here security appeared routine, almost invisible—unless you had night-vision goggles and a map showing the locations of dozens of sniper and infantry units scattered throughout the airport grounds.

A lone unmarked plain white Boeing 727 sat in front of one of the hangars, its airstair guarded by two security men in suits and ties. The lead sedan pulled forward just beyond the foot of the airstair, and four men in dark business suits, dark caps similar to chauffeur's hats, white shirts, dark ties, dark slacks and shoes, and carrying submachine pistols exited and took up stations around the stairs and the nose of the aircraft. One by one the two stretch limousines pulled up to the foot of the airstair, with more sedans unleashing eight more similarly attired and armed security agents to guard the tail and right side of the aircraft. Out of each limo several individuals exited, including an older man in a military uniform, a young woman surrounded by bodyguards, and men and women both in Western-style business suits and Iranian-style high-collared jackets.

In moments all the persons had trotted up the stairs and into
the jetliner. The security men stayed in their positions until the jet had started its engines, and then they re-entered their sedans. The big armored cars formed a bubble around all sides of the airliner as it taxied down the empty taxiways and to the main runway, and in minutes the jetliner was airborne. The limousines retreated to a secure fenced area behind the Iran Air hangars and were parked outside a battered-looking repair garage. The Mercedes sedans performed a quick patrol of the ramp and hangar perimeters, then were parked in the same fenced area as the limousines. Minutes after the drivers and security men stepped out and locked their cars, workers came out, used towels to wipe dirt off the vehicles, and covered each of them with elastic-bottomed nylon covers. The lights were turned out, and soon the airport returned to the tense quiet it had become since the insurgency began.

The gaggle of security agents walked across the parking ramp to the main terminal building, weapons slung on their shoulders, most smoking, all saying little. They had their ID badges examined by a security guard outside the terminal and were allowed inside. They walked across the passenger concourse to a door marked
CREWMEMBERS ONLY
, had their ID badges checked once more, and were admitted. Other agents inside took their weapons, unloaded and cleared them, and the group went down a dimly lit hallway and inside to a conference room.

“I think everyone played their part as best as could be expected,” the first “security guard,” General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, said. “Nice to see how the other half lives, eh, Chancellor?”

“I found it uncomfortable, unconvincing, unnecessary, and if my hearing has been damaged by those aircraft engines, I will hold you personally responsible, General Buzhazi,” Masoud Noshahr, the Lord High Chancellor of the Qagev royal court, said indignantly. He was tall and thin, in his late forties, with long and slightly curly gray hair, a salt-and-pepper goatee, and long and delicate-looking fingers. Although he was young and appeared healthy, Noshahr, obviously unaccustomed to much
physical exertion, was out of breath from their fast walking pace and from climbing stairs instead of taking elevators. He stripped off the jacket and cap and removed the tie as if they were burning his skin with acid, then snapped his fingers to one of the other men in dark suits, one of his real security guards, who went to fetch his ankle-length fur and leather coat. “It was nothing but a petty parlor game that fooled no one.”

“We had better hope it worked, Lord Chancellor,” another of the “security guards,” Princess Azar Assiyeh Qagev, said. Instead of handing her weapon off to a guard, she unloaded and cleared it herself, then began field-stripping the weapon for inspection and cleaning. “The insurgents penetrate our network deeper and deeper every day.”

“And we capture and kill more of
them
every day as well, Highness,” Noshahr reminded her. “God and time are on our side, Princess, have no fear.” Finally his attention was drawn to the weapon disassembly going on in front of him. “What in the world are you doing, Highness?” Noshahr asked in amazement as Azar's deformed but obviously skilled fingers worked the seemingly hidden levers and pins of the weapon. He squinted uncomfortably at the princess working with the submachine gun and nodded to a bodyguard, who went over to the princess, bowed politely at the waist, then reached out to take the gun parts from her hands. She gave him a stern expression and a slight shake of her head, and he bowed again and backed away. In seconds the submachine gun lay in pieces before her on the table.

“You don't carry an unknown or unfamiliar weapon into battle, Lord Chancellor,” Azar said. “How do you know if the thing will work when you want it to? How do you even know if it was loaded if you don't bother to check?”

“We carried those things for show, to fool any insurgents who may have been watching us,” Noshahr said. “I don't care what shape it's in. That's why we have trained guards with us. Princesses are not supposed to be handling dangerous weapons.”

“It's not dangerous now, Lord Chancellor—it looks like it's in good shape to me,” Azar said. She began to reassemble the weapon. In less than thirty seconds it was back together, loaded, cocked, and safed, and she slung it over her shoulder. “
I
don't carry weapons for show.”

“Very impressive, Highness,” Noshahr said, hiding his astonishment with a bored and unimpressed expression. He turned to Buzhazi. “We're wasting time here. Now that we have played along with your charade, General—putting the princes in considerable danger, I will maintain—shall we get down to business?”

“Let's,” Buzhazi responded, using the same haughty country-club tone of voice as Noshahr. “I asked you to come here to talk about coordinating our efforts against Mohtaz and his foreign insurgents. Last night's gun battle with what turned out to be
your
assassination squad must never be repeated. We need to start working together.”

“The fault was completely
yours,
General,” Noshahr said. “Your troops did not allow our freedom fighters to identify themselves. They had just come from a successful raid on an insurgent hideout when your men opened fire. My men discovered more than three dozen high-explosive devices ready for the streets, including a dozen suicide bomber vests and explosives disguised to look like everything from telephones to baby carriages.”

“I've had that bomb-making factory under surveillance for days, Noshahr,” Buzhazi said. “We were waiting for the master bomb-maker to arrive to arm those bombs. What good does it do to kill a bunch of low-level know-nothing worker bees and let the chief bomb-maker himself escape? Now it'll take us another month or more to locate the new factory, and by then they'll have fabricated another three dozen or more bombs to use against us.”