by Dale Brown
Brigadier General Mansour Sattari, a veteran of the re-volt against the Shah, a decorated fighter pilot who had personally led attacks against Baghdad during the Martyrs’ War, had come to symbolize the demise of the once great Iranian Air Force, and Iran itself. A few short weeks before, his mentor and friend General Herarsak al-Kan Buzhazi, the supreme commander of the Iranian armed forces, had been outmaneuvered in a power struggle with the imams; he had been assassinated just minutes after meeting with the Ayatollah and learning the full depth of his humiliation. Even worse than Buzhazi’s ignoble death were the Chinese troops that had entered the country at the Ayatollah’s invitation; those troops now effectively controlled the country.
And so as he bent toward Mecca to say his morning prayers, he did so with honest humility, knowing first-hand how the God of all could show his overwhelming power even to the most just of men. Sattari did not pre-sume to know why Allah did what He did, nor would he dare question the path the world took. He knew only that he must act according to his conscience and not his fear.
His actions must ultimately be judged not by those on earth or even those who claimed to know God’s will, but by God Himself.
Sattari was also a realist. And as he rose at the end of his prayers, still in a contemplative mood, he looked briefly in the direction of Iraq, the lifelong and enduring enemy of the Iranian people. For it was there that hope lay for his people. If the infidel Chinese were to be removed, if the cowards who hid behind their black robes in Tehran were to be taken from the stage, the Iraqi devils must play their role.
Thus far they had done so even better than Sattari had hoped. Seeking a solution to the Kurdish problem once and for all — a problem largely encouraged by Buzhazi before his demise — Saddam Hussein had em-barked on a typically reckless plan of simultaneously tweaking the Americans and attacking the Kurdish Pesh-marga, or “freedom fighters,” in their homeland. Kicking out UN inspectors, aggressively launching surface-to-air missiles — the Iraqi actions were so well-timed that Sattari had considered holding back his own plan to use the stolen laser. Unfortunately, the Iraqi tactics had proved inadequate to provoke a large American response; it was only when Sattari began shooting down the American and British aircraft that the westerners had become sufficiently enraged to launch an all-out attack. Sattari had to carefully coordinate his attacks with the Iraqi radar and SAM launches to make it seem as if they were responsible. This had limited his target possibilities and made his timetable beholden to the Iraqis as much as the Americans. Still, the first phase of his plan had met its objectives. American troops were streaming into the region; more significantly, American diplomats were sounding the Iranian government out about a tentative rapprochement.
The next step involved his few allies in the diplomatic corps, who must strike a deal worth kicking the Chinese out for. Sattari did not feel that would be too difficult; the Chinese were not liked, even by the black robes, and they had already brought the country considerable pain. Nor did the Americans want much from Iran, beyond the assurance that they would not help Saddam — an assurance very easily given. Some small thing might move the talks along — an American air crew downed near the border and recovered, turned over after being treated as honored guests.
With the Chinese gone, Sattari could move on to the third and final phase of his plan — restoring the military, and the air force, to its proper place.
Sattari did not want power in the government. Nor did he necessarily believe that his plans would succeed. Ever the realist, he saw them as fulfilling his duty rather than his ambition. For the alternative — the Chinese, the black robes — meant quasi-servitude, if not death for his country.
And certainly death for himself. The ayatollahs blamed the Americans for Buzhazi’s death. It was possible—
Sattari had flown with them during the early days, and knew their cunning. They had certainly helped foil General Buzhazi’s plans. But it was just as likely that the black robes themselves had killed the general, or at least allowed the Americans to do so.
Sattari did take some satisfaction in the fact that his country’s enemies would be used to liberate it. He hated Iraq beyond rational measure. It was not enough that Sattari’s younger brother died in the Martyrs’ War; the bastard Saddam had killed his mother and father with a Scud missile attack against their city. The day the American President Bush had stopped the so-called Gulf War without killing the dictator even now rated among the saddest of Sattari’s adult life.
The general walked back to his Range Rover, nodding at the driver before getting in. Two other SUVs with handpicked bodyguards sat twenty yards back on the road, waiting. Another was traveling about a quarter mile ahead.
“To Anhik,” he told the driver, using the name of the village near the laser compound. “As planned.”
The driver nodded and silently put the truck in gear.
Sattari turned his attention to the countryside over the course of the next hour, studying the mountains as they shrugged off the last of the winter snow. Ice mingled with bursts of green. A small herd of animals — goats, most likely — moved along the side of the road, prodded by a pair of young women dressed in heavy peasant garb, except for their boots. As a child, General Sattari had heard stories that made the Kurds out to be demons. As a young man he had looked down on them as ethnically inferior louts. But his experience with them following the Martyrs’ War had shown they were at least as competent and brave as any other Iranian soldier — high praise, in his mind. The fact that his complex at Anhik was staffed pri-marily by Kurds was in fact something of a comfort; he knew the men could not be corrupted by either the Chinese or the black robes.
The two men at the gate waited until they saw him nod before stepping back to let the Rovers pass. They held stiff salutes despite the wind-strewn dirt.
The site had been built during the Shah’s last years, with the intention of constructing a tractor factory; it had in fact been used to construct some mowing equipment but had lain idle for at least two years before Sattari acquired it as one of the air force’s top-secret warehouse sites. It had housed a stockpile of Russian air-to-air missiles. These were now long gone, some expended in the futile Persian Gulf action, and more, Sattari suspected, stowed aboard the Chinese vessels that had sailed from the country after the struggle that brought Buzhazi down.
A debt to be paid, along with many others.
They had started building the laser here nearly eighteen months before, when overtures by the Chinese made it clear that the hills kept it shadowed from American spy satellites. It was not completely bereft of coverage, of course — no place on earth seemed to be — but the Chinese intelligence had made development possible.
The laser had been Buzhazi’s most closely guarded secret and his prized weapon. It was based largely on plans for the American “Razor,” an antiaircraft weapon which, at least according to the specifications Sattari had seen, was considerably more accurate at a much farther range than his device. Razor was also considerably smaller, and mobile. It wasn’t just that the Americans had better computer technology; they had found a way to propagate the energy beam much more efficiently and with different gases. And their superior manufacturing abilities undoubtedly played an important role.
But his scientists were doing well, better even than they had expected. The laser was housed in a long shed-like building with roof panels that could be slid open to target an aircraft. The mechanism looked as if it had been pilfered from a planetarium — and a sewage treatment plant. Pipes ran in two large circles and from both sides of the plants. Wires crisscrossed thick cables. Computer displays stood in two banks on steel-reinforced tables; more work stations were said to be networked here than in all the rest of Iran, outside the capital.
Sattari, not a particularly scientific man, had been somewhat disappointed on his first inspection. He’d expected to see something more like the devices in the American Star Trek movies. When the inventors described the use of the chemical gases to create
a focused beam, they sounded more like cooks than weapons specialists.
Nonetheless, he could not be happier with the results.
His caravan passed a small battery of Hawk missiles and headed toward the main building. Hidden under camo netting, the missiles dated from the Shah’s era, and the crews manning them had never been able to launch one, even in training; they were too precious. Their best protection was stealth and the Americans’ obsession with Iraq. The laser could not be protected against a concentrated air attack, and he had quartered a hundred-odd men here to guard against the Chinese and black robes, not the Americans, who in any event wouldn’t attack by ground.
Because of the secrecy of the project — and also because some of the scientists who worked here were not as en-lightened about Kurds as Sattari — the soldiers were kept from the main compound by a double row of barbed-wire fence.
Sattari’s vehicle stopped near the underground tunnel that led to the laser shed as well as a bomb shelter off to the side. He liked to start his inspections here, as it allowed him to get into the very heart of the laser shed almost immediately, in effect taking the scientists there by surprise. But today it was his turn to be surprised, for as he got out of his vehicle, two figures stepped from the underground steps. One was Sattari’s commander here, Colonel Kaveh Vali. The other, considerably more ominous though nearly a foot shorter than the colonel, was Shaihin Gazsi, Ayatollah Khamenei’s personal representative to the air force.
Sattari felt the blood vessels in his neck pop as Gazsi approached. Khamenei had shown his considerable disdain for Sattari by appointing a woman to represent him.
“General, I see you have finally arrived,” said Gazsi.
Barely thirty, she seemed to rise above the traditional feminine garb, her veil and headdress fluttering behind her as if struggling to catch up. Her nose might be a half centimeter too long, but otherwise she would be a perfect beauty.
If she weren’t such a bitch.
“And you? Why are you here?” he said. He was, of course, surprised to discover that his secret was no longer secret, though this was the best he could do to hide his shock.
“You will address me with respect,” said Gazsi. “I am the Ayatollah’s representative.”
His whore, perhaps, though Sattari doubted the old bastard could get it up.
“Why are you here?” he repeated.
“The Ayatollah wishes to speak with you immediately.”
“I am at his service,” said Sattari. “I will leave in the evening.”
“You will leave now,” she said. “My helicopter is prepared for you.”
“I will leave this evening,” said Sattari. He caught the worried look on Colonel Vali’s face. “Or sooner, if my business here is completed before then.”
“I suggest you conclude it within twenty minutes. I will wait,” said the horrible woman as he descended the stairs, Vali in tow.
Chapter 84
High Top
0600
Zen unhooked his chair from the elevator mechanism on Quicksilver’s access ladder and began wheeling himself slowly toward the Whiplash HQ trailer. He kept looking for Fentress, dreading seeing him yet knowing he had to talk to him.
But what would he say?
No more time to rehearse — he was standing just outside the Whiplash trailer, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Yo, Fentress, rule number one, don’t break my plane.”
Zen meant it, or wanted to mean it, as a joke, something to break the tension. But Fentress looked down at the ground and seemed nearly ready to cry.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Zen said, wheeling over to him. “I’m busting your chops. It wasn’t your fault. Right?”
“Major Alou wanted me to take the mission,” mumbled Fentress.
“You did okay. Really.” Zen knew his words sounded incredibly phony. But what else could he say?
Well, for starters, that he shouldn’t have flown. But like the kid said, that had been Alou’s call.
Alou should have checked with him — a point Zen had already made, though Alou had dismissed it. The kid had done damn well under the circumstances, Alou had argued.
Bullshit, Zen said. He’d been shot down.
Alou hadn’t answered.
Water over the dam now. Zen knew his job was to encourage the kid, get him going.
Kid — why the hell was he thinking of him as a kid?
Guy was pushing thirty, no?
“Come on, Curly,” Zen said, wheeling ahead to the ramp. “Let’s get back on the horse. These things are flown by remote control for a reason, you know?
Could’ve happened to anyone. You did okay.”
Inside, Danny was laying out plans for an operation to hit a laser site in Iran — once they had a good location.
Merce Alou and the others, including Breanna, were nodding as he spoke.
“This’ll work,” Danny said. “I haven’t gone to the colonel with it, and we’ll need CentCom to come along, but it’ll work. Hey, Zen.” He leaned over the table, pointing his long black forefinger toward a lake and mountains in northeastern Iran. “According to what Jennifer figured out, the laser has to be somewhere inside this twenty-five-mile square. Mahabad is just to the north, there’s a major highway right along this corridor. The Dreamland mini-KH covered most of that area yesterday. The resolution’s limited, as you know, but we can ID the major structures.”
Zen pulled over the Iranian map while the others looked at the photos. Using a pen and his fingers as a crude compass, he worked an arc from the target square.
“How sure are we of this?” asked Zen. “All of the shoot-downs were within two hundred miles of the edge of your box. Razor’s range is close to three hundred.” Zen slid the map back so the others could see.
“Rubeo says it’s likely this laser isn’t as effective,” said Danny.
“That’s where it was fired from,” said Jennifer. “Where in that area, I don’t know, but it’s there somewhere.”
“Radar?” asked Zen.
“There’s airport-type radar in the vicinity. The laser would be there, or simply wired into it,” said Jennifer.
“I’ve checked with our people — it looks like they’re using barrage firing.”
“Like the Iraqis with their missiles?” asked Zen.
“Except it works,” said Major Alou.
“The way to find out what they’re doing is to hit the site,” said Danny. “You missed this, Zen. There are five possible targets, X’d out on that map. We draw people from the MEU. Two Cobras or more on each possible site. Assault teams follow. The Megafortresses provide intelligence and fuzz the radar, that sort of thing.”
“Air defenses?” asked Zen.
“The Iranians have missiles near all of the sites, though it’s not clear what’s operational and what isn’t. There are three air bases within range to intercept. You know their situation, though — it’s anybody’s guess what they can get off the ground. The one break I see is that the Chinese aren’t this far north, so we don’t have to worry about them.”
“The Marines up for this?” Zen asked.
“I don’t know,” said Danny. “I imagine they will be, but I can’t talk to them until Colonel Bastian gives the word.”
“He has to go to CentCom to get them cleared for the mission,” said Alou. “We can’t just chop them.”
“We have to do a quick hit,” said Danny. “Dr. Ray says it’s possible the thing is mobile and might be moved.”
“So when are we talking to the colonel?” asked Zen.
“Now,” said Alou.
Chapter 85
Dreamland Command Center
May 29
2100
“The Pentagon legal people are raising holy hell about taking the prisoner,” said Magnus. “And CentCom’s furious that they weren’t told about the mission.”
“We saw an initiative and we took it,” said Dog, who decided he didn’t want to parse whatever bonehead
ed argument the lawyers raised. “I stand by both actions.”
“That won’t affect the political reality,” said Magnus.
“And going into Iran will only make it worse.”
“We have to destroy the laser, no matter where it is.”
“Have you been looking at the satellite data?”
“Of course.”
“Then you realize that Saddam is launching an all-out assault on the Kurds in the north. There are rumors he’s loading Scuds with anthrax to fire at the Kuwaitis as well as the Kurds.”
“I don’t put much stock in rumors,” said Dog.
“That’s not the point, Tecumseh. This is becoming an extremely complicated situation — a geopolitical situation. If things escalate, we may need Iranian help.”
“You’re telling me the Iranians are our allies now?”
“I didn’t say that at all.”
“There’s a laser in Iran shooting down our aircraft,”
said Dog. “We can get it.”
“If your data is correct.”
“Given the number of aircraft that have been shot down, it’s worth the risk.”
“Not if it encourages the Iranians to ally themselves with the Iraqis. And not if it pushes the Chinese to declare war in support of the Iranians.”
“The Chinese are paper tigers,” said Bastian.
“Paper tigers with the world’s third largest army. Think of the impact of a nuclear strike on Saudi oil, Tecumseh.
Talk to your friend Brad Elliott about them.”
“I have the authority under Whiplash to stop whatever is shooting down the planes,” said Dog, making his voice as calm as possible. “That means the laser, and that means going into Iran. Are you withdrawing that authority or reversing the order?”
“You know I can’t do that,” said Magnus.
Only the President could.
“Are you saying that I shouldn’t proceed?”
Magnus stared at the screen but said nothing.
“We have a good plan,” said Dog softly. “All we need is support from CentCom. My people there have outlined a good plan.”
