Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Very well, very well,” Turabi said. “I will leave the rest in your very capable hands, Master Sergeant.” He shouted orders to the drivers and guards, who closed the doors and boarded the armored car, then motioned to his guards. “Open the gates and let the vehicles pass.” He got into his sedan and, with his guards flanking the vehicle, it motored in reverse toward the gate.

  Chris jumped down from his hiding place and approached the armored vehicle. The guards fearfully stepped back away from the menacing figure, their weapons upraised. Parviz Najar and Mara Saidi pushed Azar behind them protectively when they saw the gray-clad helmeted figure in the door of the vehicle. “Stop where you are!” Najar shouted in Farsi.

  “I am here to take the princess and you out of here,” Chris spoke in electronically synthesized Farsi. “Get in the driver’s seat.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Does it matter?” Chris responded through his electronic translator. “Use the vehicle radio or telephone to contact your network and let’s get out of here.”

  “What network? What princess? What are you talking about?”

  “Listen carefully,” the unearthly apparition said angrily, leaning into the vehicle menacingly to emphasize his point. “I don’t know you, and I don’t care one bit about you, but I’ve been ordered to get you out of the city and in the hands of your escape network into Iran. If you deny you’re the Iranian princess and her bodyguards who escaped from protective custody in the United States and are trying to return to Iran, then I’ve made a mistake. In that case, I’ll be happy to leave you here in the custody of the Turkmenis and the Iranians. Now which will it be?”

  Azar elbowed her way between Najar and Saidi. “I am Azar Qagev, sir, heir to the Peacock Throne of Persia,” she said in perfect English, “and I am grateful for your help. Major, take the wheel. Lieutenant, get those weapons from the guards, then call the secondary blind drop number as soon as we’re on our way. We’ll proceed to the secondary contact point as planned.”

  “Glad to see someone’s taking charge and not playing games,” Chris said. “Move out.”

  “Where will you be, sir?”

  “Not far. Move.” And in the blink of an eye, he disappeared.

  But just as they got turned around and started heading out of the parking lot, several military vehicles swarmed down the street outside. Suddenly every floodlight in the lot snapped on, bathing them all in a harsh, inescapable glare. The exit was quickly blocked by three armored vehicles with machine gunners ready in their gun turrets. “Nobody move!” a voice on a loudspeaker blared in English. “By order of the Turkmenistan Capital District Federal Police, you are all under arrest!” But it was soon obvious that these soldiers were not the same casual, ill-outfitted soldiers from the bazaar: they wore civilian clothes like the locals, but they did not look like Turkmenis. In moments about two dozen men armed with AK-74 assault rifles surrounded Azar’s armored vehicle. One of them yanked open the door, disarmed Najar and Saidi, and pulled all three of them out of the vehicle.

  Jalaluddin Turabi got out of his sedan. “I am sorry to do this, Master Sergeant Wohl,” he shouted in halting English, looking carefully around him for any sign of trouble, knowing the American could hear him, “but the Iranians were most insistent on keeping custody of the princess and having her reveal her network. But what they would really like is you. Apparently they were impressed by your performance in Qom not long ago, and they wish to inspect your armor technology up close. If you don’t want to see the girl and her bodyguards slaughtered before your eyes, come out here, now.” No response, only the sounds of more Iranian Revolutionary Guards swarming the area. “You have no chance of escape, Master Sergeant. You’ve come an awfully long way just to see the princess die and your missions fail. The Iranians don’t want you—they want your armor, weapons, and aircraft technology. You will be saving lives if you cooperate. I have received their assurances that they will let you and your men, here and at the truck farm, leave the country unharmed if you drop your weapons and remove your armor. Surrender now and…”

  At that moment there were three simultaneous explosions right in front of Turabi as the three Iranian armored vehicles blocking the entrance to the parking lot disappeared in massive clouds of fire and smoke. Turabi was knocked off his feet by the triple blasts. After finding himself dazed but unhurt on the ground, he picked himself up and took cover behind his sedan, away from the burning vehicles.

  Through the sounds of burning and popping metal, Turabi heard another series of noises, ones he had heard a long time ago but remembered as clearly as yesterday—brief screams, occasional gunshots, followed by a sickening, gory crunching sound and a loud THUD! somewhere off in the distance. He didn’t hesitate, but immediately whirled and started running down the street…

  …only to be stopped after just a few strides by what felt and looked like a steel wall that suddenly appeared directly in front of him. Turabi ran headlong into the obstruction and fell flat-out backward, semiconscious.

  When he could see straight again, he was staring up at Qagev, Najar, and Saidi looking down at him—and standing beside them was one of the American Tin Men, its helmeted face, smooth armor, and massive tank-killing weapon making it look even more the wraithlike avenger he knew it was. The armored figure knelt beside him. “Kill me, Wohl,” Turabi said, coughing up blood from a smashed nose. “Get it over with.”

  “Why, Turabi?” Chris Wohl asked. “Why did you cooperate with the damned Iranians? McLanahan was your friend.”

  “‘Friend?’ He abandoned me in this hell-hole, surrounded by thousands of damned Iranians,” Turabi said weakly. “I barely escape one assassination attempt by those bastards every week. Half my government has been paid off by Iran, and the suburbs outside the capital are swarming with Iranian-trained insurgents all waiting to sweep in and take over. The only way I could survive after becoming part of this damned government was to cooperate with them.”

  “You told them about us, about the Air Battle Force?”

  “I told them you would be rescuing the princess, and they thought they could capture you and your spacecraft,” Turabi said.

  “Shit,” Chris swore, rising to his feet. He spoke through the Tin Man battlesuit’s built-in satellite transceiver: “Stud Four.” No response. “Stud Four, how do you copy?” Still no response. He cursed himself for not checking in more often with the XR-A9 Black Stallion crew. “All Stud units, report back to the landing zone on the double and assist Stud Four. Prepare to engage hostile forces.” He received two acknowledgments. He knelt down again and stuck his helmeted face close to the stricken Turkmeni president’s. “Why didn’t you ask for our help, Turabi? The general would have sent an entire army to help you. He would have taken you out of here if that’s what you wanted.”

  “I’m an Afghan and a soldier, Wohl, not a charity case,” Turabi said. “The Iranians offered me a life back in Afghanistan—money, weapons, and assistance in raising an army again in my own homeland. All I had to do was help them capture you, then turn over control of the government to their hand-picked Islamist puppet. McLanahan offered me a pat on the head and nothing else except virtual captivity here in this miserable dustbowl.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. “What are you going to offer me now, Master Sergeant?”

  “Just this, you fucking coward,” Chris Wohl said darkly…then delivered a single blow to the Afghan’s face that penetrated all the way down hard enough to crack the pavement below his head. Azar and her bodyguards watched as Turabi’s head exploded like a ripe tomato under a sledgehammer. Wohl wiped his left fist off on Turabi’s robes, then stood and faced the three Iranians. “I’ll escort you to the outskirts of the city,” he said, “then I have to see to my troops.”

  “No,” Azar said. “Tell us where your forces are, and I will send my people to help.”

  Chris thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Outside an abandoned truck farm fourteen kilometers east of Niyazov Airport,
” he said.

  “How soon can you get there?” Azar asked.

  “Faster than you,” Chris said.

  “Then go—do not worry about us,” Azar said. “We will make contact with our network, then dispatch someone to help.”

  “My mission was to be sure you got safely out of the country.”

  “Your mission has changed, Master Sergeant,” Azar said. “Go.” Chris needed no more convincing. In the blink of an eye he had leaped into the night sky and was gone from view. “Extraordinary,” Azar said to Najar and Saidi. “Whoever neutralized weapon systems such as that much be extremely powerful.”

  “The Pasdaran want you very badly, Shahdokht,” Najar said. “We must get out of this city as quickly as possible.”

  “Not before we help the Americans,” Azar said. “Contact the network immediately.”

  Azar and her bodyguards took Turabi’s sedan, and they encountered absolutely no difficulties traveling through the city—the vehicle was instantly recognized by the police on patrol, who did nothing more than salute the vehicle as it drove past. Ten minutes later, easily negotiating the nearly deserted streets of Ashkhabad, they came to the Niyazov Thirtieth Anniversary Racetrack on the eastern side of the capital, and made their way to the stables, where they met up with dozens of members of the Qagev monarchy’s underground support network.

  “Any news of my parents?” Azar asked.

  “None, Shahdokht,” the network leader replied. “Some reports said they were intercepted in Paris by the Pasdaran. We simply do not have any first-hand information.”

  “We must proceed on our own, assemble the Court and the war council, organize the militia, and prepare to take action should the opportunity present itself,” Azar said. “But first we have a debt to repay.”

  They found the truck farm about ten kilometers east of the racetrack. The entire area was deserted, but it did not take long for Azar and her entourage to notice the smell of burning jet fuel, metal…and human bodies. Their vehicles bumped across craters made by high-explosive detonations, and small fires were still burning everywhere. The underground fighters drew their weapons as they approached the worst of the battle-ravaged area. “No,” Azar ordered, sensing danger nearby. “Lower your weapons. The enemy has already left…or has been dispatched.” She got out of the sedan and approached the center of the devastated truck parking lot. “Master Sergeant? Are you here?”

  “Yes,” an electronic voice replied. Chris Wohl emerged from his hiding spot atop a forty-foot trailer and lowered his electromagnetic rail gun. “You came after all.”

  “I said I would,” Azar said softly. “I would not abandon you after you rescued us from the Iranians. I have two squads of fighters and transportation with me. What happened here?”

  “Turabi told the Iranians where we’d land,” Chris said. “They waited until my advance team left the area, then attacked. They captured one of my commandos and several pieces of our aircraft. My man destroyed several of their vehicles and at least a platoon of Pasdaran, but he’s missing now. The aircraft crew is missing.”

  “Shahdokht, inja, inja!” one of the monarchists cried out in a low voice. “Here! Here!” Chris Wohl moved in a flash. The Iranian partisan pulled bits of flaming wreckage and heavily burned and blackened bodies out of a shallow crater beside a concrete pump house, revealing two men lying together, smoke still curling from their bodies. “Baz-mandeh! Nafas-e rahat!”

  “A survivor!” Azar said. She dashed over behind the tall figure in gray. It was a young man, holding another young man in a protective embrace. The second man’s body was riddled with bullet holes.

  The tall armored commando removed his helmet, revealing a lean, craggy face filled with concern. “Captain! Can you hear me?” Chris asked.

  The younger man opened his eyes, blinking away dirt and blood encrusting his vision. The man began to push Chris away in wide-eyed panic, and Azar knelt before him, scooped him up, and held him closely. “It’s okay, Captain, it’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe now.” She looked at Chris. “What’s his name?”

  “Hunter,” he replied. “Everyone calls him ‘Boomer.’”

  “Boomer. I like that name,” Azar said. She held him tighter until he stopped struggling, then started to probe for wounds. “It’s okay, Boomer. The master sergeant is here. We’re going to take you to safety.”

  “Ch-Chris?” Boomer asked. His wits were quickly returning. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, sir. Can you tell us what happened?”

  “They clobbered us before we could do anything,” Boomer said. “Just when you reported in position at the pickup point, they swooped in. Your guy Sergeant Max—sorry, I don’t know his full name—fought like a berserker, man. He was moving so fast, I thought there was three of him. He shot up most of the attacking vehicles, then started mowing down the ground forces, but…Jesus, there were too many of them.” He looked at his arms and saw the corpse he was still cradling. “Whoever they were, they blasted the Stud apart. I got Wil out in time, but they got him too.”

  “Enough, Captain,” Chris said. “You’re safe now.”

  “But I think they got the Stud—or whatever they didn’t blow apart…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Boomer,” Azar said. “We’ll see to it that your comrade and yourself are safe.”

  Boomer looked at the girl holding him. “The princess, I presume?” he asked. “At least your mission was successful, Master Sergeant. I like your accent, Princess. Wisconsin?”

  “Minnesota,” Azar said. She motioned to the partisans, who took the dead crewmember from Boomer’s arms. “Can you walk, Boomer?”

  “I think so.” He struggled to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, then nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” Azar said. “The Pasdaran will be after us.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Iran,” Azar said. “We’ll make contact with our freedom fighters and the Court. Once we’re inside the network again, we’ll get you back to the United States right away.”

  “The captain will go back,” Chris Wohl said. “My men and I are staying with you.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Master Sergeant…”

  “Those are my orders, ma’am,” Chris said. “Until I’m relieved or given further orders, I’m staying with you.”

  “You would abandon your superior officer…?”

  “He’s a pilot, ma’am,” Chris Wohl said flatly. “He may be a very good pilot, but he’s still just a pilot. My orders did not include baby-sitting the pilot…”

  “Jeez, thanks, Master Sergeant,” Boomer moaned.

  “…but to accompany you and your men to Iran, collect intelligence data, report back to my headquarters, and await further orders.”

  “Your men are injured and captured, Master Sergeant,” Azar said, confused. “Why do you want to stay with me?”

  “My commanding officer believes you’re the key to the future of Iran, Princess,” Chris said. “He does not support General Buzhazi’s military insurgency, and he wants more information on you and your monarchist movement. My mission is to give him the information he wants and to stand by with you in case he has further orders.”

  “Who is your commanding officer?”

  “I’d rather not give you that information, Princess,” Chris said. “He’s a powerful man, but no one else believes that either the military insurgency or an underground monarchy will survive the Pasdaran’s rampages. My mission is to give him the information he needs to convince my government to support you…or not.”

  Azar smiled and nodded. “That’s fair, I think,” she said. “My mission is to get us to safety inside Iran, convene the Court and the council of war, assemble the army, and march on to Tehran. Hopefully we can make contact with General Buzhazi and find out what he has in mind. Perhaps our forces can work together…perhaps not. We shall find out together, won’t we?”

  CHAPTER 7

&nbs
p; THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM,

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “So, you got your wanker slammed in the drawer, eh, McLanahan?” Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner said as he took his seat in the White House Situation Room. Patrick McLanahan was on a secure videoconference connection from the Battle Management Room at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada. “I guess your Tin Men aren’t as tough as we all thought if a bunch of ragheads with RPGs can take them down.”

  “Sergeant Dolan took on four squads of mechanized infantry and destroyed three of them before they finally got him, sir,” Patrick said. “He died saving two of our crewmen.”

  “Of course, of course—no disrespect to the sergeant or to the copilot that perished,” Gardner said quickly. “What I was trying to say, McLanahan, is that you should have known that your Tin Men aren’t supermen. You should have realized that leaving just one to guard a three-billion-dollar jet wasn’t going to hack it, and you should have called on more special ops forces to assist.”

  “There wasn’t time, sir.”

  “That’s getting to be a very tired old album, McLanahan,” Gardner sighed wearily, “and I for one am starting to get tired of listening to it. There’s never enough time when it comes to you and your operations, is there?”

  At that moment a staffer in the room noticed a flurry of movement outside the room. National Security Adviser Sparks entered the Situation Room, followed by Chief of Staff Minden, Vice President Hershel, and then by President Martindale. The staffer called the room to attention. “Seats,” the President said immediately. He turned to the videoconference screen. “Sorry to hear about your loss, Patrick. What do you think the Iranians got?”

  “They got Sergeant Dolan, one Tin Man battle armor system with the exoskeleton probably mostly intact, plus plenty of photographs, maybe a few composite material samples, and some electronic gear and computer modules, sir,” Patrick responded. “The communications, transponders, and computers are programmed to auto-erase whenever the emergency shutdown order is given or initiated by the computer in case of an accident or attack, but it’s not foolproof.”