by Dale Brown
As he held Turabi aloft with his right hand, he grabbed the knife away from Orazov’s right hand, then butted the Turkman with his left forearm. Dazed, Orazov dropped to the ground. Wohl dropped Turabi, who fell onto his knees, still weak from the fuel-air explosive attack—and then he dropped the knife right in front of Turabi.
“Finish him off, sir,” Wohl said in electronically translated Russian. “And I’ll have you know, sir, that if you let him kill you, my ass will be in a sling.”
For a moment it looked as if Turabi would just kill the guy, and they could be off. But the Turkmen traitor fought like a bull, and he knew that Turabi was still weak. Turabi pounced on Orazov and was just a few inches from plunging the blade into the traitor’s chest, but Orazov was able to grab his wrist and hold the blade away.
“You can’t kill me, Turabi,” Orazov said, laughing. He glanced at the armored stranger and smiled when he realized he wasn’t going to make a move to help either side. “Die like a man in front of that outsider. Roll over on your back and drop the knife. I’ll make it quick—just like I did Zarazi.”
That was not the correct thing to say to a man bent on revenge. Turabi’s eyes blazed, he let out a loud, animal-like howl, and then head-butted Orazov on his nose. Orazov’s vision exploded into a field of stars—but then went instantly dark as Turabi thrust the knife into the Turkman’s chest.
“Forgive me, Allah,” Turabi said, reciting the prayer of absolution, “but allow me to be the instrument of vengeance for the faithful.” He twisted the knife with his last remaining gram of strength, felt a fount of warm blood wash over his hand, then held the knife in Orazov’s chest until the flow of blood ceased.
“Nike, what in hell is going on over there?” Briggs radioed. He could peek into Wohl’s electronic visor via the satellite datalink built into the Tin Man battle armor and see what Wohl was seeing, and at the moment all he could see was Turabi lying on the bloody corpse. “Is that the target lying on that DB? What’s he doing?”
“He’s resolved that cultural dilemma I mentioned a moment ago, sir,” Wohl replied. He grabbed Turabi by his LBE harness again as if he were a rag doll, then took the knife away from him. “We’re on the move now, sir,” he added, just before he jet-jumped away.
OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF TURKMENISTAN, ASHKHABAD
A short time later
“So the American aircraft disappeared off radar and has not been detected since?” Kurban Gurizev, the president of Turkmenistan, asked after reading the conclusions of the report from the air force general standing before him. Unlike most of the Turkmen around him, Gurizev was short, his eyes were blue, he had skin tanned from the harsh sun instead of being olive-complexioned. Although born in Turkmenistan and a resident there most of his life, he spoke in slow, choppy Turkmen, with a definite and clear Russian accent. “What in hell happened?”
“There was a great deal of electronic jamming and false-target propagation just prior to losing radar contact,” the general elaborated. “Both Ashkhabad Control and Baku Control were affected. We were not able to ascertain if the aircraft hit the Caspian Sea or if—”
“My God, we are all dead men . . . dead men!” Gurizev breathed. “The Americans are going to come in and crush us! Who in hell did this?”
“Sir, the Russians had numerous air patrols all around the country. It was obviously one of their fighters that brought the American down,” the general said. “All aircraft were warned repeatedly of the danger of flying into the area. The Americans ignored those warnings; the crew unexpectedly and illegally broke off normal air-to-ground communications and most likely began responding to false commands, and it made unusual and provocative maneuvers in violation of air-traffic-control orders. They were in the wrong.”
“And it was attacked by a Russian MiG-29 when it—”
“We do not know that for certain, sir,” the general said. “The facts as we know them, sir, were that a Russian fighter patrol was in the area but never made any move toward the American aircraft; that the American aircraft broke off contact with air-traffic control for no reason and began making violent, unexplainable maneuvers; and that contact was lost with the plane. That’s all we know.”
“The Americans are going to bury us,” Gurizev cried. “We might as well start digging our graves right away.”
The telephone in the office rang. An aide picked it up, listened, then hit the “hold” button. “Mr. President, it’s Thomas Thorn, the president of the United States. He wishes to speak with you.”
The short, beefy president of Turkmenistan pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, dabbed his forehead and lips, took a nervous gulp of water, then picked up the telephone. “This is President Kurban Gurizev speaking,” he said in broken English. “To whom am I speaking, please?”
“This is President Thomas Thorn calling from the White House, Mr. President,” came the reply. “This is an emergency, sir. I must speak with you immediately.”
“I assure you, I have been notified of this unfortunate accident, and all of my country’s resources will be immediately mobilized to determine what has happened.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “But I can tell you precisely what happened.”
“You can?” Gurizev asked, perplexed.
“We already know that our diplomatic mission was attacked by a Russian MiG-29,” President Thorn said, as calmly as if he were talking about a nice glass of wine. “We know this because as we speak we have air-defense and reconnaissance aircraft flying over Turkmenistan, and one of our planes detected the attack on our diplomatic aircraft and destroyed the MiG-29.”
Gurizev didn’t understand everything Thorn said—but he did understand “MiG-29,” and his blood ran cold. My God, he thought, just minutes after the attack, and the Americans knew about the MiG . . . ?
“President Gurizev, are you still there? Do you need another translation?”
“Yes . . . yes, I am here, Mr. Thorn . . . er, Mr. President,” Gurizev stammered. “Ah . . . we have no information whatsoever that there was any attack.”
“I see,” Thorn said. “Nonetheless, we have incontrovertible proof that such an attack took place, and we shall soon release this data to the world. You may want to ask your military advisers if the MiG ever made it back to its base. I can tell you, sir, it did not. It was destroyed.”
Gurizev jabbed a finger at another phone, and the air force general picked it up and called his headquarters. “This . . . this is most unusual, sir,” Gurizev said. “We . . . we shall of course immediately investigate your information.”
“Please do,” Thorn said. “We regret the loss of life, but it was necessary to save the lives of former president Martindale, Deputy Secretary of State Hershel, and the others on that plane.”
“How was the pilot killed, sir, if as you claim you have only reconnaissance and defensive aircraft over Turkmenistan?”
“I’d rather not reveal how at this time, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “But it was an American warplane that shot the MiG down—after we observed him attacking our diplomatic mission with heat-seeking air-to-air missiles. We have even identified the missiles—they were AA-11 ‘Archer’ missiles, what the Russians call the R-73M2, one of Russia’s most advanced weapons.”
Gurizev looked over at his air force chief of staff, and when he saw the man’s blank, confused expression, he had to carefully suppress a gasp. “Could you hold the line, please?”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Gurizev placed the call on hold with a shaking hand. “Get that son of a bitch Russian military liaison officer over here now!” The air force officer issued the order, listened, then peered at the phone. “What in hell is it now?”
“The operator cannot contact the Russian defense liaison’s office. There is no answer.”
“What?” The Turkmen chief of the general staff grabbed the phone away from the air force commander. He barked orders into the phone, but soon he, too, w
as dumbfounded. “No response from the Russian liaison, and now the direct line to my office is completely out. What in blazes is going on?”
“Could this be true?” Gurizev thundered. “The Russian fighter was shot down—by an American combat aircraft?”
“The MiG should have already returned to Krasnovodsk,” the general said, checking his watch. “It would have run out of fuel long ago.”
“Could it have carried the weapons Thorn described?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Yop tvayu mat!” Gurizev swore loudly in Russian. He often forgot his adopted Turkmen language when he was nervous, excited, enraptured—or scared. “How in hell could the Americans know all this?”
“They must have sent stealth aircraft over our country to escort the American diplomatic aircraft,” the chief of staff said as he stood with the phone to his ear. “We must assume that the Americans have more such aircraft overhead right this very minute.”
“My God . . . this cannot be happening,” Gurizev muttered. “This is unbelievable.” He looked at the phone in his hand, then punched the blinking line button. “President Thorn, I apologize for placing you on hold. We are unable at this time to get independent confirmation of your assertions. We must be allowed to investigate this matter further.”
“President Gurizev, you can’t get through to your Russian liaison officer and your defense staff because the Russians have cut off all government communications going in or out of the capital,” Thorn said. “We have detected several cargo planes landing at Krasnovodsk and Ashkhabad. Assuming each plane holds only one hundred soldiers plus their equipment, we estimate at least a battalion-size invasion force is marching against your position right now.”
“A Russian invasion force? Why?”
“My guess is Russia intends to take over the government to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Taliban or any other foreign power,” Thorn said. “You have only a few minutes to evacuate your offices—it may already be too late. Mr. President, if you need my help, ask. Give me permission to send military forces into your country, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”
This time Gurizev didn’t bother putting the call on hold—he was too scared or confused to know what to do with his hands. “Where is Kasimov? Why is he not briefing me on the state of our air defenses or of Russia’s intentions? I pay that bastard a lot of money to advise me—he had better get in here immediately!”
“He hasn’t been heard from in several hours, sir,” the chief of the general staff replied. “I’m trying every office—”
“President Gurizev . . .”
“Kharasho, Thorn!” Gurizev said. “All right, I agree. I want your help. I don’t know what the Russians want here. You have my permission to send in any forces you desire to protect myself and my staff. Just get us the hell out of here!”
“A few questions first,” Thorn said. “Who ordered the attack on the Taliban forces outside Mary?”
“I did.”
“And the commando insertion?”
“I received an execution order from President Sen’kov about nine hours before they were ambushed.”
“Who ordered the attack on the deputy secretary of state’s plane?” Thorn asked.
“I don’t know,” Gurizev said. “When the commandos were ambushed by the Taliban, Gryzlov issued a warning order to seal off our airspace and send in bombers to blast hell out of them.”
“Did Sen’kov sign the execution order for the blockade and the air raid?”
“If he did, I never saw it,” Gurizev said. “If he had, I certainly would have rescinded the authorization for the diplomatic visit.”
“Why didn’t you rescind the authorization after the Taliban’s attack on Mary or when Sen’kov authorized commandos to be inserted near Mary?”
“Sen’kov wanted you to see what the Taliban had done,” Gurizev said. “He wanted to prove they were the instigators, not us!”
“But then why seal off the airspace after the diplomatic flight left Bahrain?”
“I didn’t know anything about the Taliban ambush outside Mary, about the air raid, or anything about the blockade, except for the warning order,” Gurizev replied. “I asked for clarification of the order, but I haven’t spoken to anyone in Moscow in days—and I haven’t seen my Russian liaison officer either, the one who is supposed to keep me apprised of such actions!”
“You did not receive the execution order?”
“After the Taliban ambushed those commandos, I received no more communications from Moscow. Sreka! All I wanted was for the Russians to stop those Taliban insurgents.”
“You’d better make your way out of there, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “Take a cellular phone with you and dial this number now.” Thorn gave him a coded number unlike any regular phone number.
Gurizev dialed it. “What do I do now?” he asked.
“You don’t have to do anything. In a few moments we’ll pick up the digital signal from your phone by satellite, and we’ll be able to locate and track you as long as you’re in range of a cell site,” Thorn said. “We’ll send in rescue forces as quickly as we can. Now, get out of there!”
Gurizev simply dropped the corded phone, pocketed his cellular phone, and shouted, “Did you get in contact with anyone yet? Can anyone tell us where the Russians are?”
“Something’s wrong . . . now I can’t get through to the defense-operations center,” the chief of the general staff replied. “The line is completely blank.” He waved the air force general to wait on the phone for him, then said to Gurizev, “Sir, I recommend you evacuate the capital. Your car should take you out of the city immediately. Once we’re safe, we can decide where to go.”
“Then let’s get out of here!” Gurizev shouted. “Have my armored car waiting in the secure parking facility immediately!” He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, with his staffers and military advisers close behind.
Suddenly the door burst open, and a dozen Russian soldiers with assault rifles drawn burst into the president’s office and roughly shoved everyone back into the room. Cowering against a wall, they were ordered to place their hands on their heads.
“What is this?” Gurizev shouted, hoping that his voice would soon stop shaking. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Colonel General Boris Kasimov, the Russian liaison to the Turkmen general staff, walked in, holding an AK-74 compact assault rifle in his hands.
“There has been a change in leadership, Mr. President,” Kasimov said in Turkmen. “I’m under orders from General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation’s military forces. He has declared martial law, and he has ordered that I take over as leader of Turkmenistan during this national emergency.”
“What in hell are you talking about?” Gurizev exploded. “Get that gun out of my face! I demand that you leave my office immediately.”
“You have no need to make demands, Mr. President,” Kasimov said. “All you have to do now is relinquish the last bit of your authority. Allow me to assist you.” At that, General Kasimov braced the AK-74 against his right hip and fired a three-round burst into Gurizev. The president was dead before his eviscerated body hit the floor. “Now, is there anyone else who would like me to further explain the situation here?” Kasimov asked. Complete silence. “Very good.” He motioned to his soldiers, and they took the Turkmen away at gunpoint.
Kasimov picked up the telephone. “President Thorn?” he asked in very good English.
“This is Thomas Thorn. Whom am I speaking to, please?”
“This is Colonel General Boris Kasimov of the Army of the Russian Federation. I am an adviser and liaison to the Turkmen government regarding national defense and manpower.”
“Gdye Rookavadeeteel Gurizev?” Thorn asked in Russian.
“I have been asked to inform you that General Anatoliy Gryzlov, chief of the general staff of the Russian Federation, has declared martial law in the Republic of Turkmenistan under the ter
ms of the Treaty of Friendship, Cooperation, and Mutual Defense between the Russian Federation and Turkmenistan signed in 1991 and in accordance with the Treaty on Joint Citizenship signed in 1993, which also provides for Russian involvement in the defense of Turkmenistan,” Kasimov said in English, ignoring Thorn’s question. “General Gryzlov has directed that I assume the duties of president and commander in chief of the armed forces of Turkmenistan during the emergency.”
“Mozhna mnye pagavareet’s Rookavadeeteel Gurizev, Colonel General?”
“Unfortunately, the president is not being allowed to take calls, Mr. President—now or ever,” Kasimov said matter-of-factly. “I must inform you, Mr. President, that the actions of your armed forces over Turkmenistan have been monitored and analyzed by Russian military forces, and they are the principal reason for the imposition of martial law.”
“Ya nee paneemayoo, Colonel General.”
“I would be happy to explain. The downing of our MiG-29 was a completely unprovoked and irrational act of murder. You have introduced deadly offensive warplanes without permission over sovereign Turkmen airspace. Since these are stealth aircraft, designed and employed to deliver weapons of mass destruction on a first-strike, preemptive basis, the presence of such aircraft over Turkmenistan represents a deliberate act of war between the United States and the Republic of Turkmenistan. Under the provisions of the treaties between the Russian Federation and Turkmenistan, the actions of the American military forces over Turkmenistan have left us no recourse but to declare a state of war between the United States and the Russian Federation.”
“What are you saying?”
“The following regulations are to be imposed immediately,” Kasimov went on, as if reciting a well-rehearsed script onstage. “American citizens who are not representatives of the U.S. government have twenty-four hours to leave Turkmenistan, or they may be detained at a location of our choosing without cause or explanation for an indefinite period of time. Any diplomatic or embassy personnel may stay but will be restricted to the embassy in Ashkhabad.
