by Dale Brown
The first figure ignored Buzhazi and turned to the others. “Report,” he ordered in English.
“The northwest battalion scattered,” another figure responded. “No further contact with them. We downed two Mi-35 Hind attack helicopters attacking from the north; three more turned away toward Qom. Systems reporting sixty-three percent and thirty-five percent ammo.”
“The southwest battalion departed as well,” another reported. “They have reassembled near the city center about seven klicks away and they are reporting the situation to their headquarters. I count a force of six APCs and one T-72-sized main battle tank. We’re at fifty percent power and thirty percent ammo.”
“Very well. The west battalion has left the area but appears to be rendezvousing with the southwest survivors,” the first figure said. “They had five APCs and a number of men on foot. I still have contact with the mortar team that set up—they’re still in place but I haven’t detected any rounds headed our way, yet. We can expect some sort of counterattack or probe shortly. Me and the sergeant major are at fifty-seven percent power and seventy percent ammo left. All of you, stop wasting your ammunition. Those aren’t machine guns you’re firing.”
“You are Americans, the so-called Air Battle Force ground units, the ones who helped the Sanusi liberate Libya,” Buzhazi said.
The first figure handed his rifle over to his comrade, then quickly removed his helmet, revealing the angry face of a rather young black man. He stepped over to Buzhazi and grasped him by his jacket, pulling him toward him until they were face to face. Buzhazi’s men moved as if they were going to help him, but backed away when the other armored figures shifted their weapons to a more threatening port-arms position. “I’ll tell you who I am, Buzhazi,” the black man spat. “I’m the guy who swore if I ever found you alive I’d twist your head right off your shoulders with my bare hands, orders or no orders to the contrary.”
“Briggs,” Buzhazi gasped. “Harold Briggs, the American commando and leader of the Tin Men. I thought so.” Hal’s face was a mask of pure rage. “You still mourn your woman, even though she died as a spy serving her people, trying to assassinate me.”
“Go ahead, Buzhazi. Say one more word to me. Give me a reason to rip you limb from limb.”
“Sir, let’s get the hell out of here,” the second figure said.
Briggs tossed Buzhazi out of his hands and into the arms of his men surrounding him. “The message is, General,” Briggs said, “that you asked for our help, and you got it. If it was up to me, I’d shove you headfirst into the sand up to your ankles and call it self-defense. But General McLanahan seems to think you have the ability to turn this country around. Personally I think he’s insane, but he thinks differently.”
“Tell him thank-you from my men and myself.”
“He can hear everything you say and has been monitoring this battle, and he will continue to monitor what you’re doing from now on,” Briggs said. Buzhazi’s eyes drifted up to the sky as if he was searching for the eyes watching them. “He convinced a lot of very powerful people that you were going to bring down the theocratic regime and help stabilize the region. If he’s found wrong, he will be extremely embarrassed, and I will take great pleasure in removing the source of that embarrassment—you.”
“He shall have no fear—the theocracy will die, or I shall,” Buzhazi said. “Iran is done sponsoring death and destruction in the name of the religion of peace. If I am successful, I shall pursue peace with the rest of the world—Arab, Westerner, Zionist, Asian, and European, as well as Persian, I swear it. Again, I thank you for your help.”
“We’re done helping you, General—we’re outta here,” Briggs said. “Your promises don’t mean shit to me—only your actions matter. Make sure no one tries to follow us east of this place, or we’ll come back and finish the Pasdaran’s job.”
“No one will follow you, I swear.”
“Better pray that’s so, General. If you have any friends in the regular armed forces who aren’t friends with the clerics, I suggest you give them a call and get them out here to give you a hand against any other Pasdaran forces who might try a counterattack. And I’ve got one more promise for you, General: The next time I come back here, it’ll be to finish the job—on you.” With that, the four figures ran off, and in the blink of an eye were gone—last seen jumping over the walls of the compound and bounding across the farmlands to the east.
“Those were the American armored commandos you called, sir?” Mansour Sattari asked breathlessly. “But that is impossible! You called them just last night! How could they have gotten out here so quickly?”
Buzhazi stood dumbstruck for a few moments, then shook himself out of his shock and smiled. “I would imagine that’s the secret east of here they don’t wish to share,” he said. “No matter. The Americans did the impossible, and they have delivered to us a miracle and turned the tides in our favor. Now it is time to push forward and take the clerical regime down once and for all!”
It took the team thirty-seven minutes to run twenty miles east of the Khomeini Library—they attracted a lot of incredulous stares from farmers and townspeople, and Hal Briggs was sure there were going to be some frantic phone calls to local gendarmerie, but they continued on without any interference. For safety, they changed their main battery packs for fresh ones before moving into the target area—their batteries were almost depleted, and it would not be prudent to have to defend their destination area with spent batteries installed. Eight miles west of the Kavir Buzurg dry salt marsh and three miles north of a smaller dry lake bed, on the very western edge of the Dasht-e Kavir wastelands, they came across a stretch of paved construction highway in the center of a narrow valley. There were dozens of natural gas wells along the road, and Hal remembered passing a large industrial complex several miles back that had to be the natural gas processing plant for these wells.
In the center of the highway, just east of a bend, sat their objective: an XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane, the “magic carpet” that took them from Dreamland to north-central Iran in less than two hours.
“I was starting to get worried, sir,” Captain Hunter “Boomer” Noble said as the four Tin Men approached.
“We radioed you we were on our way,” Hal said.
“Not about you, sir—I was worried we’d miss lunch back at the Lake,” Boomer deadpanned. “Sounds like it went well.”
“We got lucky, Boomer,” Hal said.
“That Iranian commander sure has balls of steel, eh, General? Not one, not two, but six truck bombs—and he decides he’s going to drive one of them? Gutsy.”
“The man’s a coward, Captain,” Hal said acidly. “He probably said he’d drive one because he’d rather die in a blaze of glory than be tortured or killed by the same bastards he trained to torture and kill.”
“Still, you gotta admit his timing couldn’t have been better. He initiates his attack just before the Pasdaran forms up to attack, and right when you…”
“You want to go back there and give him a big wet sloppy one, Captain, go right ahead,” Briggs snapped. “Otherwise, let’s mount up and get the hell out here. Briggs to McLanahan.”
“I’ve been listening, Hal,” Patrick responded via their subcutaneous global transceiver system. “Good job. We see a possible sign of pursuit—several small vehicles heading your way, about fifteen minutes out. No general defense alert yet, just a lot of confused radio traffic from your area, but I expect they’ll issue a nationwide mobilization order soon. The regular military’s got to get involved sooner or later.”
“We’ll be out of here in ten, if only your boy Noble would just shut his face for a second,” Hal said.
After taking one more security scan of the area to be sure there was no pursuit, the four commandos climbed inside the passenger module in the Black Stallion’s cargo bay. Boomer and his copilot started the engines, and in less than ten minutes they were racing down the highway-turned-airstrip and airborne.
“Just
airborne, and we’re already close to emergency fuel,” said the Black Stallion’s copilot. The spacecraft flew east, but only long enough to just clear the Alborz Mountain range on the coast of the Caspian Sea, then they headed north, not more than sixty miles east of Tehran.
“No such thing as ‘emergency fuel’ on this flight, Dr. Page—there’s no friendly place to abort to within range,” Boomer said. “We either reach the tanker or we jettison the passenger module, then punch out.”
“Hey, I signed for this aircraft—no one is ‘punching’ or ‘jettisoning’ anything,” the copilot, Ann Page, said.
“I second the senator’s remark,” Hal Briggs said.
“I told you boys to call me ‘Ann,’” Page said. “Remember it’s costing you a shot of top-shelf tequila at the Bellagio every time you call me something other than ‘Ann.’”
“Crossing the coastline now,” Boomer said. “The computer will start the pre-contact checklist automatically when we’re within fifty miles of the tanker’s Mode Four transponder. You can follow along on the MFD if you’d like; the checklist routine will prompt you when you come to a check and response step.”
“Computers running checklists…what is the world coming to?” Ann mused. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel naked without a library full of paper checklists in a cubby around me.”
“You’ll get over it, ma’am,” Boomer said.
“You owe me another shot of tequila when we get home, Boomer—that’s the fifth time you’ve called me ‘ma’am’ on this flight,” Ann said. “By the time we’re back on the ground, I won’t have to buy myself another drink long past I retire.”
“Double or nothing if I plug the tanker on the first try,” Boomer said.
“You’re on—and no using any computers,” Ann said, laughing. She found it incredibly easy to relax with this crew. Although she sounded like a rookie, Ann Page actually had more miles in space than anyone on board the Black Stallion—in fact, she had three times as many miles in space as all of the men and women who wore astronaut’s wings in the U.S. armed services combined.
A native of Springfield, Missouri but a Navy brat who had traveled the world with her father, a nuclear guided missile cruiser skipper who had lost his life in a battle with the Russians in the Persian Gulf over a decade ago, Ann Page had never served in the military but had always been considered just as much a part of the armed forces as anyone who wore a uniform. Thin and athletic, with large green eyes and auburn hair she was unabashedly letting turn gray, Ann could have easily been confused with any female senior general officer—and in fact she was regularly treated as such by military and civilian leaders who knew her.
After receiving several degrees in physics, aeronautical and electrical engineering, and astronautics, Ann became the chief engineer and project manager of the most ambitious and top secret defense program ever devised: Skybolt, a space-based laser weapon system, installed on Armstrong Space Station, America’s first military space station. Originally designed for the SpaceBased Radar system for the U.S. Air Force, Armstrong Space Station—nicknamed the “Silver Tower” because of its special silvery coating to protect itself from enemy laser attacks—with its two large electronically scanned radar arrays three times as big as a football field had been expanded and transformed from an unmanned radar array to a manned military space station.
Armstrong and Skybolt’s involvement in a Russian invasion of Iran over a decade earlier was crucial, and Ann Page and the station’s firebrand commander, Air Force Brigadier-General Jason Saint-Michael, became instant heroes. But the political controversy that arose over the offensive use of Skybolt—it proved to be just as effective as an anti-aircraft and anti-ship weapon as it was a defensive anti-ballistic missile weapon—became too much of a foreign affairs liability for the American administration. Skybolt was canceled, and Armstrong Space Station was converted once again to an unmanned orbiting platform, with only occasional maintenance visits made.
But the end of Skybolt didn’t mean the end of Ann Page. She continued to work on a variety of military, government, and even private space projects, becoming universally acknowledged as the Burt Rutan of space travel—any innovation, any new spacecraft, any risky or dangerous mission, and Ann Page was flying it. At the age of forty-eight she was elected to the U.S. Senate from California on a pro-military, pro-space exploration, and strong science education platform, even flying several times in space as a sitting U.S. senator, making speeches to Congress and doing TV talk shows and educational broadcasts to schools from space.
When the United States was hit in a sneak attack by the Russian Air Force and over a dozen air and missile bases had been destroyed, Ann Page decided not to run for re-election, and she disappeared from the world stage. What she actually did was join the U.S. Air Force as a civilian space systems designer and engineer, helping to build the next generation of space-based offensive and defensive weapons to help the United States defend itself better from another sneak attack. She was director of a secret program out of Los Angeles Air Force Base that sought to rebuild and redeploy the Skybolt space-based laser system when Patrick McLanahan asked her to join the Black Stallion program at Dreamland.
As compartmentalized as the Black Stallion project was, she had never heard of it before—but when she did, she instantly agreed to join. She had been involved with the America hypersonic space transportation system years ago, a combination scramjet-rocket-powered craft three times larger than the Black Stallion but with almost the same limited cargo capacity. Rapid and flexible access to space was the biggest challenge with working and defending space, Ann knew, and now they seemed to have the answer: the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane. Not only were two of this beautiful little aircraft actually flying, but she had been asked to be in charge of building and standing up the first air wing of these amazing spaceplanes.
Needless to say, she jumped at the chance to work with McLanahan and the XR-A9—not knowing that her first mission was just days later, where she would have to fly into harm’s way. But she was in heaven—back in space, where she belonged, leading a brave bunch of airmen in a race to defend the United States of America, just like before aboard Silver Tower.
Ann heard a soft beep in her helmet and scanned the large supercockpit multi-function display for whatever the ship’s computer was trying to tell her. “Is that the tanker?”
“Yep. Acknowledge the alert…that’s it, hit the F-ten button…you got it, and that’s the computer running the pre-contact checklist,” Boomer said. “Step twenty-one is the first crew-response item. F-ten again to go back to the main…” But another beep stopped him short. “Okay, looks like the computer is telling us that our fuel status is outside the safe contact parameters.”
“Which means…?”
“We’re within five minutes of flame-out by the time we reach the pre-planned contact point, which means we’re in deep shit unless we do something,” Boomer said. “Okay. I don’t think there’s time to send a text message to the tanker, so let’s go ahead and break radio silence, use the encrypted UHF radio, and get the tanker over here now. Hit F-three for the comm panel…” But Ann had already switched over to the proper display. “Aha, good, a fast study. You’ve got the number one radio.”
“Sunshine to Mailman,” Ann radioed.
“Check switches,” came the reply on the channel, a warning that she was broadcasting in the clear on an open frequency.
“You need to give them the code-word for…”
“Screw that, Boomer,” Ann said. On the radio again she said, “Mailman, just put the pedal to the metal and get the hell down here now ’cuz we’re skosh on gas. You copy?”
There was a slight pause; then: “We copy, Sunshine. Pushing it up.” Within five minutes, the fuel warning went away as the tanker accelerated and the rendezvous point moved farther south. Once the two aircraft were twenty-five miles apart, the KC-77 tanker started a left turn heading north along the center of the Caspian S
ea, rolling out precisely in front and a thousand feet above the Black Stallion in a picture-perfect point-parallel rendezvous.
“Genesis to Sunshine,” Boomer heard on his encrypted satellite transceiver.
“It’s God on GUARD,” he quipped. “Go ahead, Genesis.”
“Just a reminder: don’t zoom past the tanker on this one,” Patrick McLanahan said. “You’ll have one chance to plug him.”
“Do I have to have someone back home looking over my shoulder from now on?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative, Boomer,” Patrick responded. “Get used to it.”
“Roger that.”
The faster rejoin and precision maneuver was sorely needed, because as the refueling nozzle made contact with the XR-A9’s receptacle, the “FUEL CRITICAL” indication sounded again—they had less than ten minutes’ worth of fuel remaining. “Mailman has contact,” Boomer and Ann heard through the boom intercom.
“Sunshine has contact and shows fuel flow,” Ann acknowledged. “You’re a very welcome sight, boys. Drinks are on me back home.”
“We’re a Cabernet crew, ma’am,” the tanker pilot said.
“The copilot doesn’t like being called ‘ma’am,’” Boomer said. “Now you owe her a shot.”
“The tanker crew’s money’s no good in any bar I’m sitting in,” Ann said. “Just keep the gas coming.”
Hunter Noble rejoined with the tanker once more to top off, turned east over the Caspian Sea, and blasted the Black Stallion over Kazakhstan.
“Boomer, I’m altering your flight plan for your return,” Patrick radioed. “Instead of heading southeast and doing two orbits to line up for landing back at Dreamland, I’m going to have you go north direct for home. I want the Black Stallion turned and ready for another mission ASAP.”
“Fine with me, sir,” the aircraft commander replied. He called up the flight plan being datalinked to his flight control computers and made sure it was being properly received and processed.
