by Dale Brown
“Wrong again, Yassini,” Zolqadr said gleefully. “As of tonight, the Pasdaran has once again been detached from its subordinate position in the Ministry of Defense and has been placed directly in the hands of the Director of the Supreme National Security Deputate, where the blessed Ayatollah Khomeini first assigned it and where it properly belongs as an instrument of divine retribution. My orders come directly from the Ayatollah Mohtaz. The Supreme National Security Deputate has charged you with treason and conspiracy to commit treason, and you are hereby ordered to be placed under arrest and confinement pending summary court-martial.”
SAPAMURAD NIYAZOV CENTER
FOR PUBLIC LAW AND ORDER,
ASHKHABAD, TURKMENISTAN
THAT SAME TIME
A line of three vehicles, two sedans and one armored troop transport, pulled up to the front of the Sapamurad Niyazov Center for Public Law and Order criminal justice building in the center of the Turkmeni capital. A squad of soldiers ran out of the building and took up defensive positions around the vehicles, scanning the streets and surrounding buildings for any sign of trouble. Moments later a door on the armored vehicle swung open, followed by the doors to the building, and three persons in handcuffs and leg restraints were led from the building into the armored vehicles. As soon as they were inside, the guards were recalled and the armored vehicle and their escorts sped away.
Unseen by anyone who might be watching the operation—unlikely, since the police enforced a strict dawn-to-dusk curfew in the capital district of the city, punishable by caning—was a second armored vehicle that had slipped in to a fenced official parking lot in the rear of the building. A single guard opened the barbed-wire-topped gate and let the armored car through. The vehicle drove to a dark rear corner of the lot and parked near several other similar vehicles, and moments later the driver alighted and walked away, exiting the lot without turning back. Except for the occasional squawk of a peacock—used in Turkmenistan like a watchdog—the place quickly fell silent once again.
Several minutes later a sedan was admitted through the gate, and it parked a few yards away from the armored vehicle. Two security guards, with AKS-74 assault rifles at the ready, emerged from the sedan and took up guard positions. Moments later, a man in a long coat emerged, went around to the other side of the sedan, and opened the door for Turkmeni president Jalaluddin Turabi.
“Everything is clear, sir,” the chief of Turabi’s security detail said. “No sign of them.”
Turabi looked into the darkness outside the floodlit walls and chuckled. “They’re here, don’t worry,” he said. “They’ve probably been here for a while.” He walked over to the armored vehicle and rapped on the side door, and a guard inside opened it up. “How are you tonight, Princess?”
Azar Assiyeh Qagev leaned forward in her seat, squinting in the darkness. “Very well, thank you,” she said in passable Turkmeni, her tone of voice suspicious yet pleasant. “I presume I have the honor of addressing President Jalaluddin Turabi?”
“My staff informed me that you are observant and smart—I see they were not exaggerating,” Turabi said after shaking off his surprise.
“Do you intend on turning me over to the Iranian government without benefit of legal process?” Azar asked.
“As far as Turkmenistan is concerned, you are a citizen of the United States and Turkey, and you have broken no laws in Turkmenistan,” Turabi said. “If Iran has charged you with serious crimes, according to treaty you must be taken before a judge who will hear their arguments. But we have reason to believe your life is in danger, so you will be taken someplace safe until your extradition hearing.”
“I am forever in your debt, Mr. President,” Azar said.
“Why are you in Turkmenistan, Princess?” Turabi asked. “Certainly not to upgrade our cellular phone system.”
“I hope I don’t appear ungrateful, sir,” Azar said, “but I don’t wish to discuss this without benefit of legal counsel. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Turabi said, checking his watch. “I was hoping there was some other way I could help, that’s all.”
ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASHKHABAD,
TURKMENISTAN
THAT SAME TIME
“Things look quiet out here, One,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl radioed via the Tin Man battle armor’s built-in satellite transceiver. Wohl was hidden at the rendezvous point suggested by Jalaluddin Turabi, observing the area for any signs of danger. “Turabi just showed up. You copy, Genesis?”
“Roger that,” Dave Luger radioed from the Dreamland Battle Management area. “Sorry, but it looks like the drone you launched isn’t sending any video, just stills every few minutes. You copy us, Stud Five?”
“Roger,” Hunter Noble responded. He was patrolling the southern section of their landing spot outside of the capital, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. “We lost the video too, so we’re all out patrolling the area.” He looked over to where his copilot and mission commander, Captain Wil Lefferts, was nervously pacing, another H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Six’s about ready to have a cow, I think.”
“What’s wrong, Five?”
“Nothing—it’s just quiet as hell out here,” Boomer replied. “Wil—er, I mean, Six—jumps at every little sound.” He peered out through the darkness. His eyes were finally getting night-adapted, and he could see more and more details of their surroundings. “This is a great landing site, guys—a road plenty long for us to land on, lots of cover, far from any major highways, and open space for Stud Four to run around.” Boomer had landed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane outside a large truck parking area several miles outside the capital city of Ashkhabad. The facility appeared to be abandoned—it was easy to find from the air, easy to approach, and easy to touch down. There was a long, wide access road to the west of the complex, and that’s where Boomer landed the XR-A9.
“Just keep your eyes open, guys,” Dave said. He didn’t voice his main concerns again—the fact that Jalaluddin Turabi had recommended this spot for an insertion—because Dave had already expressed his doubts several times already. He had insisted on, and Patrick had approved, several methods to ensure that their crews weren’t walking into a trap:
The powerful sensors on Armstrong Space Station had swept the area twice in three hours prior to landing and cleared the Black Stallion to land, which made everyone feel better. There was a constellation of small NIRTSats supporting surveillance operations over Iran, and one of those satellites passed over the area every few hours to update the strategic picture of the target area.
In addition, the second XR-A9 spaceplane, launched shortly after Boomer’s, had released a Meteor payload re-entry module which seeded four surveillance drones over the area and beamed streaming video images to the Air Battle Force commandos on the ground and back to Dreamland. The drones were positioned over the landing zone and three other key places in the area: central Ashkhabad, including the government center, Hall of Justice, and the Russian embassy; the Turkmeni army barracks south of the city; and Ashkhabad-Berzien Military Airfield west of the city.
Unfortunately two of the drones malfunctioned—one crashed someplace in the desert shortly after release, and the second was still aloft but not sending any video. Dave had carefully considered requesting that they abort the mission because of the lack of timely intelligence data on the target and the area defenses. But he knew Patrick wanted this mission to happen. So after scanning the Turkmeni air base for any sign of movement that might suggest the ground team had been discovered, Dave ordered that drone moved to the Black Stallion landing site. The drone had to fly south around the city, well away from Niyazov International Airport, to avoid discovery, so it would not be on station for several minutes—meaning the Black Stallion and its crew were on their own until the drone arrived.
“Stud Four is shifting to the south—I thought I saw headlights,” Army Sergeant Maxwell Dolan in Tin Man battle armor and powered exoskeleton ra
dioed. “Genesis, are you receiving my video?”
“Affirmative, Four,” Dave Luger responded. Video and sensor images received by any of the Tin Men in the Air Battle Force ground team were uplinked via satellite back to the Battle Management Area at Dreamland, where they could be shared by any other member in almost real-time. “We didn’t see the lights, but proceed”—then he added—“with caution.”
That kind of chatter made Boomer very nervous—and at that moment he found himself unconsciously flicking the mode selector on his MP-5 up and down. Shit, he thought, he forgot which way the switch went for the “SAFE” position, and he didn’t want to radio the others to remind him—again—which was correct. He designed high-performance jet and rocket engines, he admonished himself, but for some damned reason he could never remember if flipping the switch up was “SAFE,” or the other way around.
Boomer moved toward a small concrete pump building a few dozen yards away from the Black Stallion, crouched down on the far side of the building, pulled a small LED flashlight from a flight suit pocket, covered the bulb as much as he could with his hand to avoid spoiling his night vision and startling Wil Lefferts, then shined it on the left side of the little submachine gun. Oh shit, he swore to himself, he had switched it to the three-round burst mode. For safety reasons there was no full-automatic mode on these weapons, just a SAFE, semi-automatic, and three-round semi-automatic mode.
OK, OK, he yelled at himself, pushing the switch down is bad—flipping it up is good. Push down to get down…that’s what the weapon instructor from Battle Mountain said when he…
Suddenly there was a tremendous burst of red and orange light, followed moments later by a tremendous “BOOOM!” so powerful that it knocked Boomer on his butt. “Stud Four, Stud Four…Max, how do you copy?” Dave Luger radioed frantically. “Come in!”
“Bastards!” Dolan radioed back. “I just got hit by a damned RPG round!” Boomer’s skin and fingers instantly turned cold. Were they under attack…?
“Are you OK?” Luger radioed.
“I’m going to blast those motherfuckers into the next century!” Dolan shouted. Boomer heard two or three sharp “CRAACK!” reports and knew that Dolan was firing his electromagnetic rail gun. “I see four armored personnel carriers and maybe one light tank approaching the area. I want…” Suddenly his audio report cut out.
“Stud Four, how do you copy?” Luger radioed. “Stud Four?” Still no response. “Stud Five and Six, Four is still on the move but I’ve lost his audio. I need you to…” At that moment the audio channel was completely blocked by loud squealing, hissing, and popping sounds so loud that Boomer found it hard to concentrate.
Wil Lefferts suddenly came into view, running over between Boomer and the Black Stallion, his MP-5 submachine gun upraised. “Boomer! Where are you?” he shouted.
“Over here!” Lefferts whirled around at the sound, aiming his gun at the voice. “Don’t shoot, you idiot!” Boomer ran over to him, then pulled him down to the ground and shoved the muzzle of the submachine gun away in a safe direction. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“What’s happening?” Lefferts yelled. His voice, and indeed his entire body, was shaking.
“We’re under attack! Let’s get the Stud ready for takeoff!”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the ground force?”
“I’m not going to lose the Stud to whoever’s attacking us,” Boomer said. “Our safest place is in the air. We’ll come back for the ground forces once the attack is over. Let’s go!” Crouching low, Boomer ran over to the spaceplane and climbed aboard, hoping Wil was right behind him. He pulled on his helmet and his lap restraints, flipped on the battery switch, and motored the canopy closed. As soon as he sensed that Wil was aboard, he commanded, “Engine start procedures.”
“Stand by for engine start procedures,” the computer responded. “Beginning before power on checklist.”
“Override,” Boomer ordered. “Begin engine start procedures.”
“Override before engine start checklist. Beginning power on…”
“Override. Begin engine start procedures.” Boomer had to repeat the override command for each of the checklists he wanted to skip, having to wait for the computer’s warning and verification messages each time. It seemed to take forever, but finally the computer was on the right page.
The first human interaction step wasn’t for almost another twenty seconds, so Boomer securely strapped himself into his seat and made sure Wil was doing the same—and then he looked out to his right, and his jaw dropped. Sergeant Max—Boomer wasn’t sure of his last name—was standing less than fifty yards away from the Black Stallion’s right wingtip, the electromagnetic rail gun in his arm, firing into the darkness. Every few seconds he would shift positions, darting back and forth with amazing speed, occasionally going out of sight as he moved away from the XR-A9 or back toward it to block a round fired at it. Seconds after he’d fire there was a tremendous explosion off in the distance, and often several secondary explosions as well. Boomer couldn’t believe he was moving like that after already being hit by a rocket-propelled grenade round!
The sergeant turned toward the Stud and gestured frantically down the road, urging them to take off. The checklist was proceeding normally—still ten seconds to the first hold. Finally Boomer spoke the “Acknowledge” command, verifying that the crew was ready for engine start, and the auxiliary power unit spun up and began shunting compressed air into the number two engine. The big engine took a long time to spin up, but finally it reached twenty-five percent RPMs and the fuel began injecting…
Boomer happened to glance up right before light-off…just in time to see a heavy explosive round hit the sergeant square in the chest, then instantly disappear in a blinding globe of fire. “Oh, shit,” Wil exclaimed. “My God…!”
“Get ready for takeoff—we’re going as soon as we got the power,” Boomer said. He already pre-loaded “Override” commands to the computer—it might not accept any of them except the first one, but he had to do something while he was waiting for the computer to catch up. Finally the first engine was started. Boomer’s first order to simultaneously run the “Before Taxi, Taxi,” and “Before Takeoff” checklists while the other three engines were being started were accepted, and Boomer instantly took manual control of the steering switch and…
At that moment a streak of fire raced out of the darkness, and they felt a massive shudder and heard a deafening “BOOM!” A small explosive round, probably an RPG, hit the Black Stallion’s right main landing gear. The right wing immediately flew upward a few feet, then came crashing down all the way to the ground. “Evacuate! Now!” Boomer cried. He ordered the computer to perform the “Emergency Shut Down” checklist, but it was already being done. He knew the Stud wasn’t going to be flying anytime soon—if ever—so instead of motoring the canopy up, he hit the yellow and black striped “EMER CANOPY” button to blow the cockpit canopy off the aircraft. He hurriedly unstrapped and waited for the canopy behind him to blow before standing up in his seat.
To his shock, Boomer found the aft canopy gone, but Wil was nowhere to be seen. Boomer jumped down off the spaceplane and found his copilot and mission commander lying facefirst on the hard sandy ground. “C’mon, Wil, we gotta get out of here,” he said.
“I’m hit,” Wil muttered, barely audible over the gunfire just on the other side of the plane, getting closer by the second. Boomer couldn’t see any of his wounds, but he could feel the blood covering him everywhere he touched. “Jeez, Boomer, I’m hit…”
“We’re outta here.” Boomer began dragging Lefferts away……just as another explosive ripped across the Black Stallion, sending pieces of composite skin flying in the air atop a column of fire. Boomer, egged on by the feeling that the entire front of his body was afire, kept on going as fast as he could. He knew that the concrete pump house was the only bit of cover nearby, so he pulled and pulled as fast as he…
Just then it appeared as if the entire fu
selage of the XR-A9 Black Stallion erupted and burst apart like a child’s balloon. Boomer had a brief sensation of floating in mid-air before hitting something behind him. The cloud of fire and smoke enveloped him, as did several pieces of his beloved spaceplane, and then everything went dark…
SAPAMURAD NIYAZOV CENTER FOR LAW
AND ORDER, ASHKHABAD, TURKMENISTAN
THAT SAME TIME
“I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. President,” Azar said. “I am thankful and more than a little surprised to be under the supervision of the president of Turkmenistan himself.” She paused, then asked, “Whom are we waiting for, Mr. President?”
“Your benefactors, Princess,” Turabi said. “I wish I could take all the credit for this event, but I’m doing this as a favor to an old friend.”
“I am still grateful for any assistance you might provide us, Mr. President.”
“Not at all.” Turabi looked at his watch impatiently. “But if your benefactors don’t show up soon, there might be…how shall I say it…unexpected complications.”
“Like what, Turabi?” an electronically synthesized voice said in Turkmeni. The ex–Afghan fighter whirled around. Perched atop a nearby lamppost, completely hidden in the shadows and glare, was a figure in a dark outfit. “What are you doing here?”
Those on the ground could make out no other details—but despite that, Turabi smiled. “Judging by your size and gruff tone of voice, I would say I am speaking to the infamous Master Sergeant Christopher Wohl,” he said. Azar strained to see who Turabi was talking to, but that was impossible. “I am here to make sure this transfer goes smoothly.”
“That was not smart, Turabi,” the voice of Chris Wohl said. “You should get out of here, now.”
“Where is your comrade General Briggs?”
“Never mind the chit-chat, Turabi,” Wohl said. “Turn that armored car around and head for the airport as planned.”
