Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

“I’m okay—a little bored, that’s all,” Briggs said. He was inside a “Tin Man”–powered exoskeleton, a protective suit of electronic armor made up of composite materials thousands of times stronger than steel but just a fraction of the weight. The suit was composed of a material called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically Responsive Process, that kept the material flexible but instantly hardened into an almost impenetrable shell if struck. The BERP material was surrounded by thin microhydraulic actuators in a lightweight composite framework that gave the wearer superhuman strength, agility, and speed. The suit had a variety of sensors, communications equipment, and weapon control functions built into it, as well as its own environmental controls to keep the user comfortable in extreme conditions.

  Benneton started to reach in and undo the straps securing Briggs in the aft-facing seat. “Let’s get you out of there, sir…”

  Briggs held up a large armored hand. “Better not, Doc. My readouts say it’s over one-seventy Fahrenheit in here.” He looked over at his comrade while he undid his harness. “You okay over there, Sergeant Major?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” the second passenger, U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant Major Chris Wohl replied, also wearing Tin Man armor, his usual emotionless monotone clearly identifiable through the electronic voice synthesizing system. The big Marine was seated in a forward-facing seat. He turned to Benneton while he unbuckled his harness. “I assume it’s not supposed to get this hot in here, Doc?” he deadpanned.

  “The sergeant major has just expended his allotment of quips for the year,” Briggs interjected.

  “Take it up with the aircraft commander,” she responded perturbedly. “If he had let the computers fly the re-entry and it stayed precisely on the programmed glide path everything would have been fine.” The bug-eyed helmeted figure looked at Benneton, then Noble, but said nothing in reply.

  After downloading and checking all of the recorded data from the Tin Man suits, Briggs and Wohl disconnected and stepped out of the exoskeleton, removed their helmets, and shuffled off to the back of a Security Forces flatbed truck, helping themselves to cigars and bottles of water as they rested. “It was a good ride until the re-entry, Doc,” Briggs said. “I think normal folks would have trouble with that re-entry, though—other than the heat, the g-forces are pretty severe. Can’t you make it so you pull fewer g’s?”

  “We did a two-point-five-g re-entry, which is about half of normal,” Hunter Noble said. “The Tin Man suits may have made it feel heavier than normal. How do you feel, Sergeant Major?”

  “I feel fine, sir,” Wohl said. “Perhaps all of the seats should be forward-facing—the aft-facing seats get a pounding during both takeoff and re-entry.”

  “Roger that,” Briggs agreed. “I know what ‘Spam in a can’ feels like now.”

  “I’d also suggest maybe a few windows in there too,” Wohl added. “The commando delivery vehicle the Air Battle Force uses has windows.”

  “I’ll bet it doesn’t go suborbital, Sergeant Major,” Hunter said. “Were you getting a little airsick up there? We noticed your vitals getting up there.” A warning glare from the big Marine told Boomer to terminate that line of questioning immediately. “Maybe we can put a computer monitor up front that can transmit mission data as well as outside horizon views. Good suggestion, Sergeant Major.” Wohl nodded, which instantly made Boomer feel that his life had just been spared.

  “I’m sorry you had a rough ride, General,” Nano said, concern still evident in her voice.

  “Hey, I had a great time, Lieutenant,” the Air Force Security Forces one-star general said. Hal Briggs was always an animated, energetic guy, but his face was fairly beaming as he remembered the flight he just took. “Man, I was in space. Me! I joined the Army to see the world, but I never thought I’d see it from space!” Hal Briggs had originally joined the U.S. Army but transferred to the Air Force when being a Ranger got too unexciting for him. “I’ll fly with you anytime, boys and girls, with or without the suit. Just call.”

  After a brief physical exam, the first stop was maintenance debrief, which usually lasted a couple of hours. Mission data automatically datalinked to Earth stations during the flight was compared to digital mission logs collected on the ground, and then the smallest departure from flight-planned or nominal readings was examined and discussed. The flight crew sat together at a desk surrounded by six computer monitors, each linked to a different main office of the maintenance complex—propulsion, environmental/life support, electrical/hydraulic/pneumatic, payload, communications/computers, and airframe—and answered questions transmitted to them by technicians in the control center, aircraft hangar, and records room.

  It was past noon and well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside in the Nevada sunshine when Noble, Benneton, Briggs, and Wohl finally stepped out of the maintenance debrief building, where they found Colonel Martin Tehama waiting for them. He saluted Briggs. “I hope you are okay, General, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I’m glad to hear the medics gave you a clean bill of health.”

  “Actually, I feel pretty good, Colonel—like I had a really vigorous workout,” Briggs said. “I guess whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. And you, Sergeant Major?”

  “Fine, sir,” Wohl said in his typical low, almost growling voice.

  Briggs lit up a cigar, watching with interest as Tehama’s eyes widened in concern. “Uh…sir?” the HAWC commander said apologetically. “We don’t allow smoking here at the complex.”

  Briggs nodded and looked directly at the Air Force full colonel. “Is that so, Colonel?” he asked simply, taking another deep drag of his cigar. “I’ve been assigned here for…what, Chris? Damn near twenty years?”

  “A very long time, sir,” Wohl rumbled.

  Briggs continued to stare at Tehama. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a ban on smoking outdoors except on the flight line, weapon storage area, and hangars,” he went on.

  “Well, there is, sir.”

  Briggs nodded, took another deep drag of his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew a cloud of smoke into Tehama’s face. “Duly noted. Is there anything else for me, Colonel?” he asked.

  “Sir, I think it’s a bad example for the men to have a general officer flouting my regulations,” Tehama tried one more time.

  “Do you think your men will be flouting your regulations because of me, Colonel?”

  “I don’t believe they will, sir, no.”

  “Then I don’t believe we have a problem here, Colonel.”

  “But if the men see you violating one of my regulations…”

  “Will that prompt them to go ahead and disobey your regulations?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. But it…it shows a lack of regard for my regulations.”

  “A lack of regard for some of your regulations, Colonel…like having a cigar after my first space flight, away from the flight line, outdoors, in a parking lot.” Tehama said nothing. “You are free to report my flagrant violation of your regulations to General Edgewater at Air Force Materiel Command, or to Major-General Furness at Air Battle Force. Want their numbers?”

  Tehama briefly appeared as if he was going to argue with him, but he decided against it, scowling. “No, sir,” he said, saluting. Briggs raised his cigar to return his salute, and Tehama turned to depart.

  “Oh, Colonel—what did you come out here for anyway?” Briggs asked.

  Tehama stopped and half-turned, kicking himself for forgetting. “I need to speak with Captain Noble.” He could smell another waft of fine cigar smoke traveling his way and wished he had one himself right now.

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  Tehama strode quickly yet stiffly over to where Boomer and Nano were loading gear into a staff car. They both saluted their superior officer, but Tehama didn’t return their salutes. His conversation with Boomer and Nano was very short: Tehama stopped in front of them and, with his eyes averted and his face a mask of anger and frustration, said s
imply, “Benneton, I want the report on the module on my desk by sixteen hundred hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nano responded, wondering if she had enough time and then immediately deciding, based on Tehama’s pained and angry expression, that she had better make the time.

  “Noble, you’re off the flying schedule,” Tehama said. “You will report to the flight surgeon for a complete medical and psych eval.”

  “A psych eval…?”

  “I find you moody, irritable, refusing to follow orders, argumentative, and distracted, possibly depressed or in some way unbalanced,” Tehama said. “Further, and much more seriously, you willingly violated a major operational security directive by landing during an enemy satellite overfly window period—I shouldn’t need to remind you that we are still technically in a state of war. You’re grounded until I get the report from the flight surgeon. Get on it, both of you.” He walked away without another word, not returning their salutes, or even looking up.

  Boomer wore a stunned expression as they watched Tehama walk away. “Can you believe this shit?” he exploded. Nano averted her eyes. “Grounding me is one thing…but a psychological evaluation? If that shows up on my records, I’ll be out of this program in the blink of an eye! I won’t be able to get a job spraying fertilizer over a bean field, let alone fly in space ever again. He can’t do this to me! Maybe he’s the one who’s come unhinged, eh, Nano? Wonder what he and General Briggs were talking about? Wonder if they’d get mad if I asked them?” When Nano didn’t respond, he looked at her, and saw her still looking at the pavement. “What’s up, Nano?”

  “I gotta go write that report,” was all she said.

  But she didn’t need to say anything else—her blank expression told him everything. “You agree with Tehama?” he asked her. “You think I need a psych eval?”

  “You were acting real weird today, Boomer,” she responded woodenly. “You were fighting everything and everyone, wanting to do it your own way. What’s up with that?”

  “We do that on every mission, Nano—you know that,” Boomer said. “This isn’t Edwards, Eglin, or Pax River—we don’t always follow a set program because our job is to get the weapon systems in the flight test units’ hands as soon as possible. Before Tehama showed up, no one was complaining when I’d hand-fly a re-entry or land a little hot. Why am I getting shit now?”

  “You’re getting a psych eval because you argued with the boss, Boomer.”

  “Tehama’s worried about his promotion and his pension—he doesn’t want anybody messing up his perfect little world. We need to get someone in charge here who cares more about putting hardware on the line rather than his career.”

  “When are you going to learn that you’re not going to find a field grade officer bucking for general’s stars who’s not afraid of ruining his career?” Benneton asked. “A guy’s been in the service twenty-plus years and he wants everything to go nice and smooth so he can nail down his retirement; he wants no black marks on his record so he can show off a clean, successful résumé to defense contractors or consulting clients after he punches out. Guys like Tehama are looking at the end of their Air Force careers, not the beginning, and they need that job after retirement to supplement their pitiful government pensions. You and me, we get employment offers every week, and for a hell of a lot more money than guys like Tehama will ever see.”

  “Hey, I’m not an idiot—I know all that,” Boomer said, the frustration evident in his voice. “But we can do amazing stuff out here if we’re allowed to do it. Technical and scientific hurdles I can handle—it’s the bureaucratic and personality junk that get me angry. Why can’t they just let us do our thing?”

  “You sound like a complete adolescent nerd, Boomer,” Nano said. “Go see the shrink, and try not to aggravate him or he’ll put you in a straitjacket and then I’ll have twice as much work to do around here.” She started walking toward her office inside the guarded flight test compound, then turned and shouted over her shoulder, “And I’m still pissed at you for ruining my test flight. Like I said: payback’s a bitch.”

  QOM, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Is everyone in position?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sattari said. “Looks like just a skeleton crew on duty.”

  “As we expected,” Buzhazi said. “Let’s do it.”

  Buzhazi didn’t usually go for symbology, “winning hearts and minds,” or going for shock effect—it was risky to commit precious men and equipment to anything that didn’t have concrete tactical purpose—but in this particular case, the mission could have tremendous psychological and morale impact if properly executed…

  …and if improperly accomplished, he would simply just revert to the original plan: go in and kill everyone who dared stand in their way.

  The Faqih Sayyed Ruhollah Khomeini Library of Jurisconsult, located just outside the Jamkaran Mosque and next to the Hazrat-e-Ma’sumeh shrine in the city of Qom, was the largest and most modern of the many libraries of Shi’ia Islamic thought and scholarship around the world. Completed two years after the death of the Imam Khomeini by tens of thousands of volunteers from all over the world, and intended at first to be Khomeini’s final burial place, the library was considered the home of the concept developed by Khomeini of velayat-e faqih, or “guardianship of the Islamic jurists,” in which all law, jurisprudence, and governance should be controlled and carefully supervised by clerics, not the people, scholars, lawyers, royalty, the wealthy, or any elected representatives.

  Without question, velayat-e faqih was the root of all evil in Iran. All law in Iran under the mullahs was based on their interpretation of the Koran, a centuries-old book that was as much fable and mysticism as it was a guide on how to conduct one’s life as set forth by God. Getting around the law was simple: just get a more favorable interpretation. Whatever Iran’s parliament, the Majlis voted for could be overturned or changed in a heartbeat by the whim of the faqih, the Imam Mostafa Shīrāzemi, through the authority of the Council of Guardians, and there was no recourse. Shīrāzemi—his real name was Kazemi, but as was the custom after being chosen as an ayatollah, he adopted the name of the city of his birth—was a former commander of the Pasdaran and a close political adviser to the previous faqih before assuming the role of the Supreme Leader of Iran, and he knew how to manipulate the system. He appointed six of the twelve members of the Council of Guardians and had approval authority over the other six members chosen by the members of the High Judicial Council, who themselves had been appointed to their positions by the faqih.

  In other words: the system was infested with vermin; the vermin had to be eradicated, and the nest incinerated—and this place was most definitely the nest.

  Dressed in uniforms as the Pasdarans, Buzhazi’s forces situated themselves near three of the library’s entrances. They were careful not to deploy any forces on the west side of the library—that side faced the holy shrine of Hazrat-e-Ma’sumeh, Shi’ite Islam’s second holiest shrine, about a hundred meters away. What they were about to do would certainly inflame a lot of religious passions already—there was no use in angering the faithful even more by desecrating one of their holy places, even if it was by accident.

  Buzhazi had a plan ready to break down the large concrete and steel doors to the library, but that wasn’t necessary—a guard waved him over when he noticed them assembling outside. Buzhazi ordered his men to drive their vehicles right up to the gates as if they were deploying to protect the entrances—and when they did so, the guards inside, young Pasdaran troopers fresh out of school, admitted them immediately. “Status of your security detail, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked as he stepped inside the heavy door, casually looking around.

  “My God, sir, where have you been?” the young enlisted trooper asked. “We have not been relieved since our security regiments departed.”

  “Is that any reason to abandon safety protocols, Specialist?” Buzhazi asked. “Get your finger off that trigger. Never place yo
ur finger inside that trigger guard unless you’re prepared to kill someone.” He grasped the young trooper’s rifle and flicked the safety switch on. “Same for the safety.”

  “Sorry, sir. Sorry.”

  “Pay attention from now on, soldier. Where is your platoon leader?”

  “Gone, sir.”

  “To whom do you make your post reports?”

  “Uh…we inform the imams when they ask, sir,” the trooper said. “We weren’t told who else to report to.”

  Buzhazi shook his head. “That’s fine, Specialist. You and your comrades will report to my company commander from now on. I relieve you. Report over there right now and do as you’re told.” The trooper started to hurry off toward the vehicles arrayed outside the gate, then stopped, returned to his spot, rendered a salute, and managed to wait until it was returned before hurrying off again. Within moments the entire security detail on this gate, just a dozen men, had left their post and were in custody; within minutes, the other two entrances were secure as well. The prisoners would be given a choice: swear allegiance to Buzhazi and join his insurgency, or die. Not one moment of hesitation would be tolerated.

  Buzhazi, Sattari, and a group of six security men entered the library. The place was as beautiful inside as it was stark outside: tall soaring ceilings capped with a beautiful mosaic tile dome, polished marble columns, shining marble floors inlaid with gold and silver, and long rows of oak bookshelves surrounded by tables, chairs, rugs, and computer workstations. A magnificent thick topaz carpet outside of an ornately decorated archway signified the entrance to the Khomeini mosque.

  There was no one in the library at this hour. Just as Buzhazi started to worry about how to find the mullah in charge of the place, his wish was granted the moment he set foot on the topaz carpet without removing his boots: a man in a white turban and long flowing white and gray robes came running out of nowhere, waving his hands, followed by several assistants. “You! You! I have told you a hundred times, you may not enter the shrine of the faqih without permission from the imam! Now go!”