by Dale Brown
High Top
0600
ZEN UNHOOKED HIS CHAIR FROM THE ELEVATOR MECHANISM on Quicksilver‘s access ladder and began wheeling himself slowly toward the Whiplash HQ trailer. He kept looking for Fentress, dreading seeing him yet knowing he had to talk to him.
But what would he say?
No more time to rehearse—he was standing just outside the Whiplash trailer, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Yo, Fentress, rule number one, don’t break my plane.” Zen meant it, or wanted to mean it, as a joke, something to break the tension. But Fentress looked down at the ground and seemed nearly ready to cry.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Zen said, wheeling over to him. “I’m busting your chops. It wasn’t your fault. Right?”
“Major Alou wanted me to take the mission,” mumbled Fentress.
“You did okay. Really.” Zen knew his words sounded incredibly phony. But what else could he say?
Well, for starters, that he shouldn’t have flown. But like the kid said, that had been Alou’s call.
Alou should have checked with him—a point Zen had already made, though Alou had dismissed it. The kid had done damn well under the circumstances, Alou had argued.
Bullshit, Zen said. He’d been shot down.
Alou hadn’t answered.
Water over the dam now. Zen knew his job was to encourage the kid, get him going.
Kid—why the hell was he thinking of him as a kid?
Guy was pushing thirty, no?
“Come on, Curly,” Zen said, wheeling ahead to the ramp. “Let’s get back on the horse. These things are flown by remote control for a reason, you know?
Could’ve happened to anyone. You did okay.” Inside, Danny was laying out plans for an operation to hit a laser site in Iran—once they had a good location.
Merce Alou and the others, including Breanna, were nodding as he spoke.
“This’ll work,” Danny said. “I haven’t gone to the colonel with it, and we’ll need CentCom to come along, but it’ll work. Hey, Zen.” He leaned over the table, pointing his long black forefinger toward a lake and mountains in northeastern Iran. “According to what Jennifer figured out, the laser has to be somewhere inside this twenty-five-mile square. Mahabad is just to the north, there’s a major highway right along this corridor. The Dreamland mini-KH covered most of that area yesterday. The resolution’s limited, as you know, but we can ID the major structures.” Zen pulled over the Iranian map while the others looked at the photos. Using a pen and his fingers as a crude compass, he worked an arc from the target square.
“How sure are we of this?” asked Zen. “All of the shoot-downs were within two hundred miles of the edge of your box. Razor’s range is close to three hundred.” Zen slid the map back so the others could see.
“Rubeo says it’s likely this laser isn’t as effective,” said Danny.
“That’s where it was fired from,” said Jennifer. “Where in that area, I don’t know, but it’s there somewhere.”
“Radar?” asked Zen.
“There’s airport-type radar in the vicinity. The laser would be there, or simply wired into it,” said Jennifer.
“I’ve checked with our people—it looks like they’re using barrage firing.”
“Like the Iraqis with their missiles?” asked Zen.
“Except it works,” said Major Alou.
“The way to find out what they’re doing is to hit the site,” said Danny. “You missed this, Zen. There are five possible targets, X’d out on that map. We draw people from the MEU. Two Cobras or more on each possible site. Assault teams follow. The Megafortresses provide intelligence and fuzz the radar, that sort of thing.”
“Air defenses?” asked Zen.
“The Iranians have missiles near all of the sites, though it’s not clear what’s operational and what isn’t. There are three air bases within range to intercept. You know their situation, though—it’s anybody’s guess what they can get off the ground. The one break I see is that the Chinese aren’t this far north, so we don’t have to worry about them.”
“The Marines up for this?” Zen asked.
“I don’t know,” said Danny. “I imagine they will be, but I can’t talk to them until Colonel Bastian gives the word.”
“He has to go to CentCom to get them cleared for the mission,” said Alou. “We can’t just chop them.”
“We have to do a quick hit,” said Danny. “Dr. Ray says it’s possible the thing is mobile and might be moved.”
“So when are we talking to the colonel?” asked Zen.
“Now,” said Alou.
Dreamland Command Center
May 29 2100
“THE PENTAGON LEGAL PEOPLE ARE RAISING HOLY HELL about taking the prisoner,” said Magnus. “And CentCom’s furious that they weren’t told about the mission.”
“We saw an initiative and we took it,” said Dog, who decided he didn’t want to parse whatever boneheaded argument the lawyers raised. “I stand by both actions.”
“That won’t affect the political reality,” said Magnus.
“And going into Iran will only make it worse.”
“We have to destroy the laser, no matter where it is.”
“Have you been looking at the satellite data?”
“Of course.”
“Then you realize that Saddam is launching an all-out assault on the Kurds in the north. There are rumors he’s loading Scuds with anthrax to fire at the Kuwaitis as well as the Kurds.”
“I don’t put much stock in rumors,” said Dog.
“That’s not the point, Tecumseh. This is becoming an extremely complicated situation—a geopolitical situation. If things escalate, we may need Iranian help.”
“You’re telling me the Iranians are our allies now?”
“I didn’t say that at all.”
“There’s a laser in Iran shooting down our aircraft,” said Dog. “We can get it.”
“If your data is correct.”
“Given the number of aircraft that have been shot down, it’s worth the risk.”
“Not if it encourages the Iranians to ally themselves with the Iraqis. And not if it pushes the Chinese to declare war in support of the Iranians.”
“The Chinese are paper tigers,” said Bastian.
“Paper tigers with the world’s third largest army. Think of the impact of a nuclear strike on Saudi oil, Tecumseh.
Talk to your friend Brad Elliott about them.”
“I have the authority under Whiplash to stop whatever is shooting down the planes,” said Dog, making his voice as calm as possible. “That means the laser, and that means going into Iran. Are you withdrawing that authority or reversing the order?”
“You know I can’t do that,” said Magnus.
Only the President could.
“Are you saying that I shouldn’t proceed?” Magnus stared at the screen but said nothing.
“We have a good plan,” said Dog softly. “All we need is support from CentCom. My people there have outlined a good plan.”
“CentCom doesn’t have authority to engage in ground operations in Iraq, let alone Iran.”
“We have to attack the laser quickly,” said Dog. “My scientists say there’s a good chance it’s mobile or at least can be made mobile. Even if it stays right where it is, no plane flying over northeastern Iraq is safe. Let alone one flying over Iran.”
A thin red streak, so bright it could have been paint, had appeared across Magnus’s forehead. “You know, Dog, you sound more and more like Brad Elliott every fucking day.” The screen flashed and went blank.
Dog had never heard Magnus use a four letter word before.
“So what now?” asked Major Cheshire, whom Dog had asked to sit in with him.
“We find a way to go ahead without CentCom,” Dog said.
“Magnus seems against it.”
Dog thought back to his conversation with Knapp. Not exactly something to hang a career on.
“The Whipla
sh order hasn’t been revoked,” he said.
“We have to proceed.”
“Do we destroy the laser, or try and send Danny in?” said Cheshire.
He hadn’t anticipated using her as a sounding board when he’d kept her at the base, and until now she hadn’t been. But Cheshire did fill the role of alter ego admirably.
Mid-thirties, a career officer with a wide range of experience—a woman with the perspective of someone who’d had to fight her way into what was essentially a closed club, in reality if not in theory.
A good alter ego. A good wife, in a way.
Jennifer was the one he wanted. This would put her in more danger—she’d barely escaped the laser strike on Quicksilver.
Not a factor in his decision.
“If we can’t use CentCom, we can’t send Danny,” said Dog finally. “But we have to proceed.”
“What about the Chinese?”
“Questions, always questions,” he said with a laugh.
“Well? Are we risking World War Three here?” Dog began to pace in front of the mammoth view screen at the front of the room. At the time the Whiplash order had been issued, the threat was largely thought to be a new radar system or a technique involving radar. The President had probably put Whiplash in motion as insurance for CentCom, intending them to augment the conventional forces. He hadn’t foreseen this development.
But the fact that the threat turned out to actually be a directed energy weapon did not change the essential nature of the orders—something was still shooting down American planes, and he was empowered, ordered, to stop it if possible.
The orders were predicated on the threat being in Iraq, not Iran.
It wasn’t hard to guess why Magnus hadn’t volunteered to take the matter to the President. If things went wrong, and even if things went right, the mission could plausibly and legally be described as a rogue adventure by a misguided underling—Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh Bastian. His head could be offered up to whomever wanted it: Congress, CentCom, the Iranians.
They had to proceed with the mission. If they didn’t, more Americans would die. The laser might be refined and sold to other countries, beginning with the Chinese—who might even already have it. It might be used to threaten commercial air flights or against satellite systems.
But proceeding might very well mean the end of his career.
And the death of his lover, daughter, and friends.
“Colonel?” asked Cheshire.
“Open the channel to High Top,” Dog told the lieutenant on the com panel. Then he turned to Cheshire.
“We’re moving ahead.”
Tehran, Iran
1000
FOR ALL HIS EXPERIENCE IN COMBAT, FOR ALL HIS BRAVADO, General Sattari still felt awe as he stepped into the chamber of the Council of Guardians in the capital. He might have no respect for the robed men who sat here, he might think that the Ayatollah Khamenei was essentially a coward and a traitor to his people, but he could not forget that these men, for all their failings, were teachers with a special relationship with God. Perhaps they abused their power, perhaps they made decisions motivated by greed or expedience rather than piety—but they nonetheless contemplated the Creator with a depth of attention that he could only admire.
The marble floors, the large open room, the rich tapes-try—all reinforced the humility of his position. His steps faltered; he felt his fingers beginning to tremble and his heart pumping faster, adrenaline mixing, accentuating his nervousness. When he saw Ayatollah Khamenei sitting calmly before him, he felt his tongue grown thick. He had been wrong to proceed without his blessing; he had been wrong to underestimate the religious leader’s skill and control.
He considered saying nothing. He considered, even, running from the building.
A glance to the Chinese guards flanking the door steeled his resolve.
“You have caused us great difficulty,” said Khamenei in a voice so low Sattari practically had to stop breathing to hear.
“The difficulties are with our enemies,” Sattari said. He reminded himself he was not without leverage. Nor was his weapon unguarded—before leaving Anhik he had deployed most of his men on the highways south of the base to guard against any move by the Chinese; spies at the air bases they used would warn if any bombers or transports took off. While Sattari did not believe Khamenei would order such an attack against him—he would have done so already, rather than summoning him here—the Chinese could well choose this time to move unilaterally.
“How does the American attack on the dog Saddam help us?” asked the Ayatollah.
“Because, your excellency, it takes their attention away from us, and at the same time weakens our enemy. Our people in Basra pray for deliverance.” The continued suppression of Shiites in the southern Iraqi city had been the subject of many of Khamenei’s edicts, but the Ayatollah showed with a frown that he would not be so easily persuaded. Sattari felt an urge to shout at him that they must take advantage of the American preoccupation and push off the Chinese; they could rearm with American help as long as the Americans were obsessed with Iraq. American weapons were far superior to the Chinese hand-me-downs; this had been proven time and time again. And even if the Americans offered no aid, they could be used to cow the Chinese into a better arrangement.
Surely Allah was against the pagan Communists as well as the demon Christians.
Did it matter that American planes were destroyed? Did it matter that Iraqis were killed? These were good things.
Sattari remained silent.
“We were not informed that the weapon was ready to be used,” said the Ayatollah when he spoke again.
“Reports of the tests six months ago were delivered in this very hall,” said Sattari. “At that time, readiness was discussed.”
And projected as being five years away, if not more.
Sattari had helped coach the scientists on what to say, and listened carefully. The laser’s actual location had also been carefully left out of the report.
Khamenei stared at him, not bothering to point out the contradiction.
“You wish your power restored,” said the black-robed imam instead. “You feel that by these actions you will restore yourself to a position of eminence.”
“My interest is Iran, and the glory of God.”
“That does not rule out your own glory, does it?” He thought to supply a formula from the Koran to the effect that personal glory means nothing except as it contributes to salvation, but the stirring of some of Khamenei’s cohorts in the row behind him diverted him.
“My interest is Iran, and the glory of God,” he repeated.
“So be it,” said the Ayatollah. “But I will be the judge of the success of your action.”
Sattari considered the words. Khamenei had conceded nothing—but neither did he order Sattari to stop what he was doing.
He was willing to play the game. Perhaps he detested the Chinese and the Iraqis as much as Sattari. Or perhaps he had his own plans; his face gave nothing away.
It occurred to Sattari that he might be stronger than he realized. He didn’t have to angle for power—he had it. If he could arrange for a purge of some of the more religious junior officers in the air force, he might combine them with his Kurd allies and control the northwest provinces on his own.
It was not among Sattari’s plans, but the idea did warm his chest against the coldness of the hall as he took his leave.
Incirlik
1100
THE AMERICAN’S ARABIC WAS CLEAR ENOUGH, THOUGH HE seemed an odd bird, limbs and legs constantly in motion as he stumbled for the right phrase. Neither he nor any of the other Americans seemed to realize that Tarik spoke English, or that he had spent several years in America. He believed that was very much for the good, especially since he had overheard his captors say several times that he must be treated with care. Certainly they had been good to him so far.
They wanted to know how he managed the radar network. They asked of a laser,
and missiles, but to every question he feigned ignorance.
He would say nothing. That was his duty.
High Top
1110
TORBIN HAD TROUBLE CONCENTRATING ON THE RADAR screen as Jennifer Gleason reviewed the settings for him.
If the plane’s captain was the most beautiful woman Torbin had ever seen—and she was—Jennifer was number two.
Very different, though. Not military. Long hair, thinner.
Cursed like a stinking sailor. Smarter than any ten people he’d ever met.
“So you hit this sequence here, that just tells the computer to screw over its normal programming,” she told him. “Then you manually move the cursor to prioritize, or use verbal commands, like this.” The scientist began speaking in a calm, almost quiet voice, using the screen ID codes to identify the targets.
“The thing to remember is that you have to precede instructions with the word ‘Computer.’ “
“Got it,” said Torbin.
“Okay. You run through the simulation program I just set for you. I have to help install the laser detection gear in Raven, so I’m going to download some programming while you’re practicing. Then you’re going to come over to Raven with me and help calibrate it.”
Jennifer bent down to examine something on the screen of her laptop, exposing a small bit of flesh near her waist-band.
“Okay,” said Torbin, wrestling his eyes away with great difficulty. “Okay, okay.”
High Top
1115
WITHOUT THE MARINES OR OTHER CENTCOM SUPPORT, the best they could do was blow up the laser. Even then, it might be tricky—they had only six JSOWs left, to use against the three likely sites.
“We can get there in the Bronco,” insisted Mack, who had suddenly become enamored of the turboprop plane.
“In and out.”
“Your loaded radius just won’t cut it,” said Zen. “Especially if it turns out to be that site out near the lake. I’m sorry, Danny. Colonel Bastian’s right. This is the way we have to go.”
“I’m worried that we don’t even have all the possible sites,” said Alou. “From what Rubeo says, those four smaller buildings could be it too.”
