by Dale Brown
“You mean, one of the spaceplanes I’ve heard so much about?” Azar asked. “They were riding in one in space when it was hit by this laser?”
“Yes, Highness. I would like assistance to hunt down this Russian weapon and neutralize it.”
“I don’t think that’ll be difficult at all,” Azar said. She handed the phone to Buzhazi, who put it on a speaker and asked Major Haddad to translate for him.
“Marshal Buzhazi?”
“Greetings, General McLanahan,” Buzhazi said through Haddad.
“Hello, Marshal. You got a promotion, I see.”
“And I judge by your unexpected call, the sudden appearance of such a large force on my doorstep, and the disturbing lack of information from your military or foreign ministries, that your career has not enjoyed similar success,” Buzhazi said. “But you helped me when I was on the run, and I was hoping to one day do the same for you. So. The Russians have shot down your spaceplane?”
“Can you help us find that laser, Buzhazi?”
“Of course. I am sure we can find it quickly, if my men do not already know where it is.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“General, we do not automatically distrust the Russians like you do—in fact, we have more reasons to distrust the Americans,” Buzhazi said. “We are neighbors with Russia, and our borders have been safe and secure for decades; we have purchased many weapons and received substantial military, economic, industrial, and trade assistance from Russia, which was urgently important to us during all the years of the trade embargo with the West; we even still have a mutual defense treaty that is in full force and effect.”
“So you’re saying that you have been working with the Russians, Marshal,” Patrick asked with surprise, “including supplying them with information on our activities in Iran?”
“General McLanahan, sometimes the depth of the naïveté of the Americans astounds me,” Buzhazi said. “We have to live here; you merely influence events here for America’s national interests, sometimes from the relative comfort of a battle staff room—or a space station. Of course we supply Russia with information, just as we supply you with information on Russia’s activities and assist you when you run into…domestic political problems, shall we say?” Again, no response from Patrick.
“We all have our own necessities, pursuits, and agendas,” Buzhazi went on. “We hope such cooperation enriches us all and is mutually beneficial, but in the end it is our own objectives that must be attended to first, no?” Again, silence. “General McLanahan? Are you still there?”
“I’m still here.”
“I am sorry to have upset or disillusioned you, General,” Buzhazi said. “You did save my life and help me defeat the Pasdaran in Qom and Tehran, and for that I would help you until the last of my days. All you had to do was ask. But you should not be so surprised to learn that I would extend similar courtesies to any other country that helps my cause, including your adversaries. So. You wish to locate this Russian mobile laser system? Very well. I shall contact you immediately through Major Macomber when I have its precise location. Is that agreeable?”
“Yes, it is, Marshal,” Patrick said. “Thank you. And what of my men there in Tehran?”
Buzhazi turned to Azar and spoke in low tones for a few moments; then: “The queen wishes to extend all possible aid and comfort to you and your men. In return, she hopes you will assist us when the time comes.”
“So do I have to worry about a Russian attack on that location, Buzhazi?” Patrick asked.
“Patrick, I think I have made myself plain to you,” Buzhazi said through his translator. “I hope you are not one of those idealistic men who believe that we help each other because we believe it is the right or just thing to do, or because one side is inherently good and the other is evil. You brought your forces to Tehran for reasons that are not entirely clear to me yet, but I know that we did not invite you. We will learn all soon, God willing. Until then, I will do what I must for our nation and our survival. You will do what you must for your men, your cause, and yourself. Hopefully all those things are mutually beneficial.” And he hung up the phone without even a departing salutation.
“Everything okay, sir?” Macomber asked via his subcutaneous transceiver after he had excused himself from Buzhazi and Azar.
“Major, I think we need to trust Buzhazi, but I just can’t make myself do it,” Patrick admitted. “He may be a patriot, but he’s first and foremost a survivor. When he was chief of staff and commander of the Pasdaran, he was fully prepared to sink an American aircraft carrier and kill thousands of sailors just to prove how tough he thought he was. I think he wants to get rid of the theocracy and the Pasdaran, but I think he’ll do anything he needs to do—include screwing us both—to survive. You’re going to have to make the call.”
“Yes, sir,” Macomber said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Well, Major?” Buzhazi asked via the electronic translator when Macomber returned. “What does your commanding officer say? Does he trust me yet?”
“No, sir, he doesn’t,” Macomber said.
“So. What shall we do?”
Macomber thought for a moment; then: “We take a little ride, Marshal.”
CHAPTER NINE
Never contend with a man who has nothing to lose.
—BALTASAR GRACíAN
OVER SOUTH-CENTRAL NEVADA
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
“Here’s the latest, guys, so listen up,” the SEAL team leader, U.S. Navy Lieutenant Mike Harden, said. The fifteen members of his SEAL platoon, all pre-breathing oxygen in the cargo compartment of their C-130 Hercules cargo plane, stopped looking at charts and turned their attention to him. “Our guy on the inside tells us that the place is virtually deserted. He counts a total of twenty Security Forces personnel, mostly centered on the main computer center next to the headquarters building. The battle staff area has been deserted and there is just a skeleton security force stationed there, about six guys. The hangars have been locked up for a couple days. This checks with our own overhead surveillance. So our objective remains the four main offices in the headquarters building: one squad each going for the security operations center, the battle management area, the communications center, and the flight operations center. Unit Bravo is right behind us, and his guys will take the hangars and the weapons storage area.
“Our guy on the inside says he’s seen just one of those CID manned robot units around the place patrolling the hangars and weapon storage area. We know they had a total of six CIDs. One was deployed to Iran, two deployed to Turkey, and one surrendered when the Rangers assaulted Battle Mountain, so there’s two left, and we have to assume they’re both at Elliott. There are approximately a dozen Tin Man units unaccounted for as well.
“Remember, use regular ammo only against the Security Forces guys if they open fire on you—don’t waste ammo on the CIDs or Tin Man units.” He held up a 40-millimeter grenade round. “These are our best hope of putting those things out of commission: microwave pulse generators, like a direct fucking lightning bolt hit. They tell us it should shut down all their systems instantly. Probably lethal for the guy inside, but that’s his problem if he chooses to fight. These guys are fast, so stay on your toes and concentrate fire. Questions?” There were none. “All right. We have about five minutes to go. Get ready to kick some zoomie ass.” There was a muffled round of “Hoo-ah!” in oxygen masks all around.
It seemed like just a minute later when Harden was notified by the cockpit crew that the jump zone was two minutes out. The SEALs quickly detached themselves from the aircraft oxygen system, hooked up to portable oxygen bottles, got to their feet, and held on tightly to handholds as the rear cargo ramp was lowered. No sooner had the ramp motored down than the red light turned green, and Harden led his platoon out into the frigid darkness. Less than twenty seconds after Harden jumped, all sixteen men deployed parachutes. Harden checked his chute and oxygen, made sure his infrared marker light was
operating so the others could follow him in the darkness, then started following the steering indications from his wrist-mounted GPS unit.
This was a HAHO, or High Altitude–High Opening jump. From twenty-seven thousand feet, the team could sail about thirty miles from their jump point to their objective: Elliott Air Force Base, nicknamed “Dreamland.” By order of the President of the United States, the two SEAL units had been ordered to assault the base, neutralize the Cybernetic Infantry Devices and Tin Man units patrolling the base, capture all base personnel, and secure the aircraft, weapons, computer center, and laboratories.
The winds were a little squirrelly, definitely different than forecast, which probably explained the hurried jump. Harden found himself steering his canopy in some rather radical maneuvers to get on-course. Each turn soaked up some horizontal speed, so that meant a little more marching once they got on the ground. They would fly for about ten minutes.
Once finally established on-course, Harden started looking for landmarks using his binocular night-vision goggles. He quickly saw that things weren’t looking quite as planned. The first visual target was Groom Lake, the big dry lake bed south of the base that had the majority of Elliott’s twenty-thousand-foot-long runway embedded in it. It was soon obvious they were too far west—they had jumped way too early. The GPS said they were right on-course, but the landmarks didn’t lie. They had planned for this contingency, but Harden was going to give the flight crew a good chewing-out when this mission was over. He had studied the entire surrounding area in his pre-jump target study and was confident he could find a good place to land, even if it had to be on the dry lake bed itself.
He couldn’t quite reach the dry lake bed, but he was able to find a flat area about fifty yards north of a dirt road. The landing was a lot harder than he anticipated—again, the GPS was lying about the wind direction and he landed with the wind instead of into it, which increased his ground speed and the force of the landing. Fortunately they were wearing so much cold-weather gear for the long HAHO jump, and the extra impact force was mostly soaked up. He formed up the team in less than three minutes, and it took them less than five to get their parachutes, harnesses, and extra cold-weather gear off and stowed, and their weapons, comm gear, and night-vision systems checked and ready.
Harden checked his GPS and motioned their direction of movement, but the assistant officer in charge, who had the backup GPS, waved his hand and indicated a different direction. They put their GPS receivers side by side, and sure enough, their readouts were completely different…in fact, they were different by about three miles!
That explained them being off-course and landing in the wrong direction based on GPS-derived winds: their GPS receivers were being spoofed. Harden knew that GPS jammers were being developed, but a jammed GPS receiver could be disregarded and alternate navigation methods used right away before significant errors were made. On the other hand, a spoofed GPS receiver would appear to be working properly. Even the C-130’s GPS receivers had been spoofed. He had to remember that they were up against a unit that developed and tested next-generation weapons of all kinds, top secret stuff that probably wouldn’t be seen by the rest of the world for years but would revolutionize warfare when it did hit the streets.
The platoon chief pulled out a lensatic compass, ready to take some fixes on terrain landmarks and cross-check their position on his map, but it must’ve taken a hit in the accelerated landing because the compass dial was spinning as if it were attached to an electric motor. Harden wouldn’t be surprised if the eggheads here had developed a way to jam or spoof compasses too! He decided that since they landed west of the edge of the dry lake bed they would just head east until they found the lake, then they’d move north until they found the inner perimeter fence. He again signaled their direction of movement, overriding all queries, and headed off at a trot.
They had stripped off the cold-weather gear and left their parachutes behind, greatly lightening their load, but soon Harden found himself wiping sweat from his eyes. Jeez, he thought, it had to be below freezing out here in the high desert, but he was sweating to death! But he ignored it and kept on…
“Windward,” he heard in his headset. He dropped to his belly and scanned the area. That was the code word for a team member in trouble. He crawled back along his direction of movement and found the platoon chief on his back, with the AOIC checking him over. “What in hell happened?” he whispered.
“He just collapsed,” the assistant officer in charge said. He wiped sweat from his face. “I don’t feel too good either, LT. Would they use nerve gas on us?”
“Stay down,” someone said on the secure FM tactical radio.
Harden looked down the line of SEALs spread out in the desert. “Radios tight!” he whispered. The AOIC passed the word back to the others. He had briefed to use code words only on the radios on this mission unless they were in a firefight and the whole team was compromised.
The platoon chief sat up. “You feeling okay, Chief?” Harden asked. The chief signaled he was, and they prepared to move out again. But this time it was Harden who felt woozy—the minute he stood up, he was bathed in warm, dry heat, as if he had just opened the door to a red-hot oven. The feeling subsided when he dropped to a knee. What in hell…?
And then he realized what it was. They had been briefed on the incident in Turkey, where the guys from Dreamland used nonlethal microwave weapons to knock out the base security personnel—they reported that it felt like intense heat, like their skin was on fire, and soon their brains got scrambled so bad that they passed out. “Crocodile, crocodile,” Harden spoke into his whispermike, the code word for “enemy nearby.”
“Just stay down and don’t move,” they all heard in their headsets.
Shit, the Air Force guys had found their FM frequency, decoded the encryption routine, and were talking over their whispermike channel! He turned and made a hand signal to switch to the secondary frequency, and the word was passed down to the others. In the meantime, Harden pulled out his satellite phone and punched up the other SEAL unit’s secure channel: “Silver, this is Opus, crocodile.”
“Did you know,” they heard in their headsets on the new channel, “that there are no words that rhyme with ‘silver’ and ‘opus,’ just like ‘orange’?”
Harden wiped a rivulet of sweat out of his eyes. Comm discipline completely forgotten, he angrily switched back to the whispermike: “Who the hell is this?”
“Ah ah ah, Lieutenant, beadwindow, beadwindow,” the voice said again, using the old code word warning of inappropriate radio transmissions. “Listen, guys, the exercise is over. We already took down the other unit heading to the flight line and weapon storage area—you guys did much better than they did. We have some nice comfy rooms ready for you. Stand up with your hands in the air and we’ll take a little drive back to base. We have a truck on the way to come get you.”
“Fuck you!” Harden shouted. He got into a low crouch and scanned the area, ignoring the growing pain radiating throughout his body…and then he saw it, a huge robot, less than twenty meters in front of him. He raised his rifle, flicked off the safety, and fired a grenade round. There was a tremendous flash, the smell of high-tension electricity frying the air, and a feeling of millions of ants crawling across his body…but the sensation of heat had vanished, replaced by bone-chilling cold as his sweat-soaked uniform quickly released body heat to the frigid night air.
He trotted back to his men. “Everybody okay?” he whispered. They all signaled they were fine. He checked his GPS receiver—it was completely dead, but the platoon chief’s compass was working properly again, and he quickly plotted their position on his map, got a bearing toward their destination, and headed out.
On the way they passed the robot. It looked as if its limbs, torso, and neck had twisted in different and very unnatural directions all at once, and it smelled of a short-circuited and burned-out power drill. Harden was at first sorry for the guy inside—after all, he was a fellow
American and soldier—but he wasn’t going to stick around to check on him in case he was just stunned.
It was completely dark as they approached the inner perimeter fence, a double-layered fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. No lights around the fence meant either dogs or infrared sensors, Harden knew. He gave the order for the team to break into squads and begin their approach to…
…and at that moment he heard a whirring sound, like a high-speed fan, and he looked up. Through his night-vision goggles he saw an object about the size of a garbage can about twenty feet in the sky and just thirty or forty yards away, with a wide round shroud on the bottom, long legs, and two metallic arms which held white flags—and incredibly it had a lighted LED scrolling display on the top that read DON’T SHOOT JUST TALK WE’RE LISTENING.
“What the hell is this?” Harden asked. He waited until the flying robot got about ten yards away, then shot it down with a single burst from his MP5 submachine gun. He was sure he hit it, but it managed to fly down in a more or less controlled manner, landing awkwardly a few yards away, the scrolling LED message still visible. He repositioned his whispermike to his lips. “Who is this?”
“This is Brigadier General David Luger,” the voice on the other end replied. “You know who I am. This has got to end, Lieutenant Harden, before anyone else gets hurt or killed.”
“I have orders to take you into custody and secure this base, sir,” Harden said. “I’m not leaving until my mission is accomplished. On authority of the President of the United States, I’m ordering you to deactivate all of your base defenses and surrender yourselves immediately.”
“Lieutenant, there are a dozen more drones flying overhead right now carrying stun grenades,” Luger said. “We can see you and each of your fifteen comrades, and we can hit each one of them with a stun grenade. Watch carefully. In front of you, right near the fence.” A moment later he heard a tiny metallic ping! sound from almost directly overhead…and seconds later there was a tremendous flash of light, followed moments later by an impossibly loud craack! of sound and then a wall of pressure like a hurricane-force wind lasting a fraction of a second.
