Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “They cooked up their own mustard gas?”

  “I do not know where the hell they got it, sir—Iran has a lot of chemical munitions, so maybe they stole it or had it secretly stored away,” Truznyev said. “The stuff went off when the American missile hit. But the point is, they violated our directives and attacked an unauthorized target with an unauthorized warhead. There are only a few truck-launched missiles that have the fusing necessary to carry out a chemical weapon attack—it will not be hard for the Americans to discover we supplied the Iranians with the Hornet missiles.”

  “Get Mohtaz on the phone, now,” Zevitin ordered. Chief of staff Orlev was on the phone in an instant.

  “Now that the Pasdaran has brought in foreign fighters from all over the world to join this damned jihad against Buzhazi’s coup,” Truznyev said, “I do not think the clerics have very tight control over their forces.” The Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, the former Iranian national defense adviser—and the most senior member of the former Iranian government to survive Buzhazi’s bloody purge of Islamists—had been proclaimed president-in-exile, and he called upon all the Muslims of the world to come to Iran and fight against the new military-monarchist government. The anti-Persia insurgency grew quickly, spurred on by tens of thousands of Shi’a Muslim fighters from all over the world who answered the fatwa against Buzhazi. Many of the insurgents had been trained by Iran’s Revolutionary Guards Corps, the Pasdaran, so their fighting effectiveness was even greater. Within days after Mohtaz’s call to arms went out, most of the cities of the new Persia were embroiled in bitter fighting.

  But part of the chaos in Persia was due to the fact that the coup leader, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, inexplicably refused to form a new government. Buzhazi, the past chief of staff and former commander of the paramilitary Internal Defense Forces that battled the Revolutionary Guards Corps, had led a stunningly successful coup, killing most of Iran’s theocratic rulers and sending the rest fleeing to neighboring Turkmenistan. It had been assumed that Buzhazi, together with former chief of staff Hoseyn Yassini, the officers of the regular armed forces, and supporters of one of Iran’s past royal families, the Qagevs, would take control of the capital city of Tehran and form a government. A name had even been chosen—the Democratic Republic of Persia, indicating a clear direction the people wanted to take—and the country was now referred to by its historic name, “Persia,” instead of the name “Iran,” which was the name decreed to be used by Reza Shah Pahlavi in 1935. Only supporters of the theocracy still used the name “Iran.”

  “But I do not think we should stop arming the insurgents,” General Darzov said. “Every successful attack against the Persians will weaken them. We need patience.”

  “And every time the jihadis launch another missile into the city and kill innocent women and children, the insurgency suffers the same fate—it gets weakened, as does Russia, General,” foreign minister Alexandra Hedrov said. Tall, dark-haired, and as alluring as any woman in the senior echelons of Russian government could be, Alexandra Hedrov was the highest-ranking woman to ever serve in the Kremlin. Like Zevitin, she came from an international finance background, but as a lifelong resident of Moscow and a married mother of two, she didn’t have the jet-setting reputation of her superior. Serious and sharp and without extensive political connections, Hedrov was widely considered the brains behind the presidency. “We look even worse if we are seen supporting baby-killers.”

  She turned to Zevitin. “Mohtaz has got to find a way to tone down the jihadis, Mr. President, without relieving the pressure on Buzhazi and Qagev to give up and evacuate the country. We cannot be seen supporting mass murder and instability—that makes us look unstable ourselves. If Mohtaz continues on this path, the only recourse we have is to support Buzhazi.”

  “Buzhazi?” Zevitin asked, confused. “Why support Buzhazi? He turned to the Americans for help.”

  “That was our fault—he acted out of desperation, and we were not there for him when he needed us, so he turned to McLanahan,” Hedrov explained. “But Washington inexplicably has not thrown its support behind Buzhazi, and this creates an opportunity for Russia. We secretly support Mohtaz because Russia benefits from the instability in the region with higher oil prices and greatly increased arms sales. But if we end up backing a loser, we should reverse course and support whom I believe will be the eventual winner: Buzhazi.”

  “I disagree, Minister,” Darzov said. “Buzhazi is not strong enough to destroy Mohtaz.”

  “Then I suggest you get out of your airplanes and laboratories and take a look at the world as it really is, General,” Hedrov said. “Here is the real question, Mr. President: Whom do you want to win, Buzhazi or Mohtaz? That is who we should be supporting. We support Mohtaz because the chaos in the Middle East keeps America from meddling in our affairs in our own spheres of influence. But is a theocratic Iran a better choice for Russia? We know Buzhazi. You and I have both met with him; we supported him for many years, before, during, and after his removal as chief of staff. We still supply each other with intelligence information, although he is keeping information about the American presence in Iran closely guarded and more expensive to obtain. Maybe it is time to increase the level of contact with him.”

  The phone vibrated beside Orlev, and he picked it up and moments later put it on hold. “Mohtaz on the line, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Iranian embassy in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan,” Orlev replied, anticipating the question.

  “Good.” When the Ayatollah Mohtaz and his advisers fled Iran, he unexpectedly holed up in the Russian embassy in Ashkhabad, demanding protection from Buzhazi’s forces and the so-called monarchist death squads. That created a lot of curiosity and questions from most of the rest of the world. It was well known that Moscow was an ally of Iran, but would they go so far as to protect the old regime? What if elections were held and the theocrats were voted out? Would the clerics and Islamists become an albatross around Russia’s neck?

  As a concession to the rest of the world, Zevitin had Mohtaz leave the embassy, but quietly guaranteed his safety with Russian FSB units stationed in and around the Iranian compound. At first he thought the Islamist wouldn’t leave the embassy—or, worse, threaten to expose Russia’s involvement in Iran if he was forced out—but thankfully things didn’t reach that stage. He knew Mohtaz could always produce that card in the future, and he needed to decide what to do if he tried to play it.

  Zevitin picked up his phone. “President Mohtaz, this is Leonid Zevitin.”

  “Please stand by for His Excellency, sir,” a heavily Persian-accented voice said in Russian. Zevitin rolled his eyes impatiently. It was always a game with weak men like Mohtaz, he thought—it was always so damned important to try to gain the smallest advantage by making the other party wait, even over something as simple as a phone call.

  A few moments later, the voice of a young translator said, “The Imam Mohtaz is on the line. Identify yourself please.”

  “Mr. President, this is Leonid Zevitin calling. I hope you are well.”

  “Praise be to God for his mercy, it is so.”

  No attempt to return pleasantries, Zevitin noted—again, typical of Mohtaz. “I wanted to discuss the recent air attack by the Americans in Tehran against a suspected Hezbollah rocket launcher.”

  “I know nothing of this.”

  “Mr. President, I warned you against allowing the insurgents to arm the rockets with weapons of mass destruction,” Zevitin said. “We specifically chose the Hornet rocket because it is in use all over the world and would be harder to trace back to Russia. The only rocket force known to have the technology to put chemical warheads on them was Russia.”

  “I know no details of what the freedom fighters do in their struggle against the crusaders, nonbelievers, and Zionists,” the translator said. “All I know is that God will reward all who have answered the call of holy retribution. They will earn a place at His right hand.”

  “Mr. Presiden
t, I urge you to keep your forces in check,” Zevitin said. “Armed resistance to foreign occupation is acceptable to all nations, even with unguided rockets against suspected sympathizers, but using poison gas is not. Your insurgency risks a popular backlash if—”

  Zevitin could hear Mohtaz shouting in the background even before the translator finished speaking, and then the flustered young man had to scramble to keep up with the Iranian cleric’s sudden tirade: “This is not an insurgency, damn your eyes,” the translator said in a much calmer voice than Mohtaz’s. “Proud Iranians and their brothers are taking back the nation that has been illegally and immorally taken from us. That is not an insurgency—it is a holy war of freedom against oppression. And in such a struggle, all weapons and all tactics are justified in the eyes of God.” And the connection was broken.

  “Fucking bastard,” Zevitin swore—not realizing until it was too late that he had done so in English—as he slammed the receiver down.

  “Why bother with that insane zealot, sir?” foreign affairs minister Hedrov asked. “The man is crazy. He cares for nothing else but retaking power—he does not care how many innocent people he must kill to do it. He is bringing in foreign jihadis from all over the world, and most of them are crazier than he is.”

  “Do you think I care about Mohtaz or anyone in that damned country, Minister?” Zevitin asked heatedly. “For the time being, it is better for Russia with Mohtaz alive and stirring up the Islamists, calling for them to go to Iran and fight. I hope that country tears itself apart, which is almost a certainty if the insurgency grows.”

  “I wish Buzhazi had called on us rather than McLanahan when he wanted support for his insurgency—Mohtaz and that monarchist bitch Qagev would be dead by now, and Buzhazi would be firmly in command, with us at his side,” Hedrov said, casting a disapproving glare at Federal Security Bureau chief Truznyev. “We should have recruited him the moment he surfaced in the Iranian People’s Militia.”

  “Buzhazi was completely off our radar screens, Minister,” Truznyev said dismissively. “He was disgraced and all but condemned to die. Iran had drifted into the Chinese sphere of influence…”

  “We sold them plenty of weapons.”

  “After oil prices rose, yes—they bought Chinese crap because it was cheaper,” Truznyev said. “But then we found many of those weapons in the hands of Chechen separatists and drug runners within our own borders in short order. China stopped their support for Iran long ago because they support Islamists in Xinjiang and East Turkestan—Chinese Islamic insurgents were fighting government troops with their own damned weapons! The theocrats in Iran are completely out of control. They do not deserve our support.”

  “All right, all right,” Zevitin said wearily, shaking his hand at his advisers. “These endless arguments are getting us nowhere.” To Truznyev, he said, “Igor, get me all the data on that American hypersonic missile you can get your hands on, and get it fast. I don’t need to know how to counter it—yet. I need enough information so that I can make Gardner believe that I know all about it. I want to argue that it’s a threat to world peace, regional stability, the arms balance, blah, blah, blah. Same with their damned Armstrong Space Station. And I’d like an update on all the new American military technology. I’m tired of hearing about it after we encounter it in the field.”

  “Argue with the Americans, eh, Mr. President?” chief of the general staff Furzyenko asked sarcastically. “Perhaps we can go in front of the Security Council and argue that the sunlight reflecting off their station’s radar arrays keeps us up at night.”

  “I don’t need snide remarks from you today, General—I need results,” Zevitin said acidly. “The Americans are settled in Iraq, and they may have gained a foothold in Iran if Buzhazi and the Qagev successfully forms a government friendly to the West. Along with American bases in central Asia, the Baltics, and eastern Europe, Iran adds yet another section of fence with which to pen us in. Now they have this damned space station, which passes over Russia ten times a day! Russia is virtually surrounded—” And at that, Zevitin slapped his hand down hard on the table. “—and that is completely unacceptable!” He looked each of his advisers in the eye, his gaze pausing momentarily on Truznyev and Darzov before sitting back in his seat and irritably running a hand over his forehead.

  “That hypersonic missile surprised us all, sir,” Truznyev said.

  “Bullshit,” Zevitin retorted. “They need to test-fire the thing, don’t they? They can’t do that in an underground laboratory. Why can’t we be observing their missile tests? We know exactly where their high-speed instrumented test ranges are for hypersonic missile development—we should be all over those sites.”

  “Good espionage costs money, Mr. President. Why spy for the Russians when the Israelis and Chinese can offer ten times the price?”

  “Then perhaps it’s time to cut some salaries and expensive retirement benefits of our so-called leaders and put the money back into getting quality intelligence data,” Zevitin said acidly. “Back when Russian oil was only a few dollars a barrel, Russia once had hundreds of spies deep inside every nook and cranny of American weapons development—we once had almost unfettered access to Dreamland, their most highly classified facility. And what places we didn’t infiltrate ourselves, we were able to buy information from hundreds more, including Americans. The FSB’s and military intelligence’s task is to get that information, and since Gryzlov’s administration we haven’t done a damned thing but whine and moan about being surrounded and possibly attacked again by the Americans.” He paused again, then looked at the armed forces chief of staff. “Give us a status report on Fanar, General Furzyenko.”

  “One unit fully operational, sir,” the chief of staff replied. “The mobile anti-satellite laser system proved very successful in downing one of the American spaceplanes over Iran.”

  “What?” chief of staff Orlev exclaimed. “Then, what the Americans said was true? One of their spaceplanes was downed by us?”

  Zevitin nodded to Furzyenko as he pulled a cigarette from his desk drawer and lit up, wordlessly giving him permission to explain. “The Fanar project is a top-secret mobile anti-satellite laser system, Mr. Orlev,” the military chief of staff explained. “It is based on the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser system developed in the 1980s, but greatly modified, enhanced, and improved.”

  “Kavaznya was a massive facility powered by a nuclear reactor, if I remember correctly,” Orlev observed. He was only in high school when he learned about it—at the time the government had said there was an accident and the plant had been shut down for safety upgrades. It was only when he assumed his post as chief of staff that he learned that Kavaznya had actually been bombed by a single American B-52 Stratofortress bomber, a highly modified experimental “test-bed” model known as the “Megafortress”—crewed by none other than Patrick McLanahan, who was then just an Air Force captain and crew bombardier. The name McLanahan had popped up many times in relation to dozens of events around the world in the two decades since that attack, to the point that Darzov and even Zevitin seemed obsessed with the man, his high-tech machines, and his schemes. “How can such a system be mobile?”

  “Twenty years of research and engineering, billions of rubles, and a lot of espionage—good espionage, not like today,” Zevitin said. “Continue, General.”

  “Yes, sir,” Furzyenko said. “Fanar’s design is based on the Israeli Tactical High-Energy Laser program and the American airborne laser program, which puts a chemical laser on a large aircraft such as a Boeing 747 or B-52 bomber. It is capable of destroying a ballistic missile at ranges as far as five hundred kilometers. It is not as powerful as Kavaznya was, but it is portable, easily transported and maintained, is durable and reliable, extremely accurate, and if locked onto target long enough, can destroy even heavily shielded spacecraft hundreds of kilometers in space…like the Americans’ new Black Stallion spaceplane.”

  Orlev’s mouth dropped. “Then the rumors are true?” Zevitin sm
iled, nodded, then took another deep drag of his cigarette. “But we denied we had anything to do with the loss of the American spaceplane! The Americans must realize we have such a weapon!”

  “And thus the game begins,” Zevitin said, smiling as he finished the last of his cigarette. He ground the butt into the ashtray as if demonstrating what he intended to do to anyone who dared oppose him. “We’ll see who is willing to play, and who is not. Continue, General.”

  “Yes, sir. The system can be disguised as a standard twelve-meter tractor-trailer rig and can be driven almost anywhere and mixed in with normal commercial traffic. It can be set up and readied to fire in less than an hour, can fire about a dozen bursts on one refueling, depending on how long the laser is firing at one target—and, most importantly, it can be broken down and moved within minutes after firing.”

  “Only a dozen bursts? That does not sound like very many engagements.”

  “We can bring along more fuel, of course,” Furzyenko said, “but Fanar was never designed to counter large numbers of spacecraft or aircraft. The system can only fire for up to thirty seconds at a time due to heat, and one load of fuel can fire the laser for approximately sixty seconds total. The next barrage can be fired thirty to forty minutes later after refueling, depending on if the fuel comes from the fire vehicle or a separate support vehicle. Most spacecraft in low-Earth orbit would be well beyond the horizon before another barrage, so we decided it would be best not to try to fire too many barrages at once.

  “In addition, everything else in the convoy increases in size as well—security, provisions, spare parts, power generators—so we decided to limit the extra laser fuel to one truck. With one command and fire vehicle, one power and control vehicle, one refueling and supply vehicle, and one support and crew vehicle, it can still travel anonymously enough on open highways anywhere without drawing attention. We brought it back to Moscow for additional tests and upgrades. That will take some time to accomplish.”