by Dale Brown
“Don’t investigate? A six-pack of American supersonic bombers attacked an air base in Turkey, and I’m not supposed to investigate?”
“It would be better if you didn’t, Joe,” Martindale said. “Besides, the air strike probably stopped a war between us and Turkey. From what I was told, we took out a fourth of Turkey’s tactical air force on that single raid. They were getting ready to hit Iraq again, probably destroy most of Irbil and Kirkuk.”
“Kevin…how in the hell do you know all this stuff?” Gardner asked. “What have you been up to?”
Martindale looked at Gardner for a moment, then smiled and said quietly, “I am Scion Aviation International, Joe. Heard of them?”
The eye-bulging incredulous expression was back. “Scion Aviation? Scion…you mean, McLanahan’s outfit?”
“My outfit, Joe.”
“You…you have the robots…the Tin Man…?”
“Fewer than we had before, thanks to Hirsiz and Cizek,” Martindale said, “but we still have the rest.” He looked at Gardner and remained silent until the president looked at him in return. “I know what you’re thinking, Joe: you grab McLanahan in Iraq and force him to reveal where the other robots are, then rendition him to Uzbekistan for the rest of his life. Don’t do it.”
“Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Gardner said. “That’s exactly what he deserves!”
“Joe, you need to do what I did: stop fighting the guy and learn to work with him,” Martindale said. “The man went out there, planned an air strike against one of the most powerful countries in that region of the world, brought together the aircraft, weapons, and satellite support he needed, and succeeded. Isn’t that the guy you want working for you?”
“The guy sent two of those Tin Men after me, at Camp David, and one of them had me by the neck…!”
“And I know why, Joe,” Martindale said. “I have all the evidence, stored away, just in case. Now it’s not just McLanahan you need to eliminate: now it’s me and a small group of attorneys who know where all the copies of all that evidence are hidden.” He put a hand on Gardner’s arm. “But I’m not here to threaten you, Joe,” he went on. “I’m telling you, McLanahan doesn’t want to fight you, he wants to fight for you, for America. He’s got the gift, man. He sees a problem and moves heaven and earth to fix it. Why wouldn’t you want him on your side?”
He patted Gardner on the shoulder, then retrieved his coat. “Think about it, Joe, okay?” he said as he prepared to depart. “And lay off the investigation, or paper over it, or classify it, do whatever. If it gets the Turks to back down, it’s all good. You can even take credit. I’ll be looking in on you, Mr. President.”
THE PALM JUMEIRAH, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
From the rooftop restaurant of the spectacular new Trump International Hotel and Tower in Dubai, Patrick McLanahan and Gia Cazzotto could see a lot of the incredible trunk, crown, fronds, and breakwater of the Palm Jumeirah, one of the three Palm Islands, artificial islands and reefs that form one of the most unusual and one-of-a-kind residential and recreational developments in the world. In the shape of a huge palm frond, it adds more than three hundred miles to the Persian Gulf coastline of the United Arab Emirates.
Gia raised her champagne glass to Patrick, and he touched his glass to hers. “So tell me, General,” she asked, “how did you get a hotel for you, me, and your entire crew at the most exclusive and impossible-to-book hotel in the world?”
“A very appreciative boss,” Patrick said.
“Ooh, very mysterious. Who is he? Or can’t you say? Is he like a Charles Townsend character, rich and powerful but prefers to stay hidden in the shadows?”
“Something like that.”
They stood and admired the view for a few moments; then she said, “When do you head back to the States?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“You can’t stay any longer?”
“No.” He looked at her, then asked, “When do you go back to Palmdale?”
“Day after tomorrow. I thought I was headed to Fort Leavenworth, but all that stuff suddenly went away.” She looked at him carefully. “Wouldn’t happen to know why all those State Department and Defense Intelligence Agency investigators suddenly disappeared, would you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps your Charlie became my guardian angel?” Patrick said nothing. She gave him a mock frown. “You don’t say much, do you, sir?” she asked.
“I asked you not to call me ‘sir’ or ‘General.’”
“Sorry, can’t help it.” She took a sip of champagne, then laced her fingers between his. “But maybe if you did some not-so-general type stuff, I’d get the hang of it.” Patrick smiled, leaned forward, and lightly kissed her on the lips.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Patrick.” She gave him a mischievous smile, pulled him closer, then said before kissing him again, “But that’s not all I’m talking about.”
ÇUKURCA BORDER CROSSING, HAKKARI PROVINCE, REPUBLIC OFTURKEY
THAT SAME EVENING
There was a small crowd of well-wishers along the road through the Çukurca border crossing post on the Turkey-Iraq border, waving Turkish flags and cheering as the lead vehicles of the Turkish Jandarma forces reentered their home country. Border guards held them back, and patrol dogs were led up and down the line.
It was a long, exhausting, and degrading trip home, thought General Bezir Ozek as he alighted from his armored car once he crossed the border, but this was making the whole embarrassing debacle somewhat worth it. The border post commander saluted, and a small ceremonial band played the Turkish national anthem. “Welcome home, General,” the commander said.
“Thank you, Major,” Ozek said, “and thank you for this reception.”
“Don’t thank me—thank the people,” the major said. “They heard you were coming home, and they wanted to welcome you and your men back from a victorious campaign against the PKK.”
Ozek nodded, not saying what he was really thinking: his campaign had been a failure, cut short by the coward Hasan Cizek. After the American air raid on Diyarbakir, Cizek completely disappeared, leaving the government wide open. Kurzat Hirsiz resigned and turned over power to Ays¸e Akas, and the campaign to crush the PKK was over. He had spent the last week fighting off ambushes by PKK and peshmerga guerrillas as they made their way back home.
“Come, please, meet your well-wishers,” the major said. He leaned toward Ozek and said, “All security precautions have been taken, sir.”
“Thank you, Major,” Ozek said. He turned to the crowd and waved, and the crowd let out a cheer. Well, he thought, that sounded real enough. He started shaking hands. Men and women looked google-eyed at him, as if he were some rock star. Hundreds of hands were reaching out to him.
He was just about at the end of the crowd when he noticed one woman waving her right hand to him and carrying a baby in her left. She was most attractive, made even more so by the fact that she was nursing the baby, with only a light gauzy blanket over her bare breasts. He grasped her free hand. “Thank you, my dear, thank you for this welcome,” he said.
“No, thank you, General,” the woman said gleefully. “Thank you for your hard-fought battles.”
“I do my best to serve the people of Turkey, and especially beautiful women like you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “It is a job I treasure, just as I will treasure meeting you.”
“Why, thank you, General.” The gauzy blanket shifted slightly, and Ozek grinned as he peeked at her chest. Damn, he thought, he’d been out in the field way too long. “And,” she said, batting her eyes at him, “I have a job to do as well.”
The gauzy blanket dropped away, revealing beautifully firm sexy breasts…and a horribly mangled left shoulder, half a left arm…and a wooden stick with a rakelike end attached to the stump. “My job, to avenge the people of al-Amadiyah, is at an end, General, as is yours…courtesy of the Baz.”
And with that, Zilar Azzawi
released the dead man’s trigger on the detonators connected to the twenty pounds of explosives hidden in the doll she carried like a baby, killing everyone within a radius of twenty feet.
About the Author
DALE BROWN is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including Edge of Battle and Shadow Command. A former U.S. Air Force captain, he can often be found flying his own plane over the skies of the United States.
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