by Dale Brown
Patrick had been severely reprimanded for his actions against the Russians, but his Air Battle Force ground teams did succeed in rescuing the ex-Taliban fighter turned Turkmeni armed forces commander Jalaluddin Turabi from the Russians. Turabi returned to his adopted country and later became president of Turkmenistan. Although protected by the United Nations and slowly transforming into an Islamic republic similar to Turkey, most of the educated, elites, petroleum industries, urban areas, and government were heavily Russian or Russian-sympathetic, and Turabi was under constant pressure to return Turkmenistan to the Russian sphere of influence.
“Well, maybe so,” Raydon replied, “but it looks like the military guys and the ones in the Iranian vehicle were confronting a group of three persons sitting near a horse pen or corral.”
“Three persons, you say?” Dave Luger asked.
“You got something on that?”
“The State Department put out a bulletin a few days ago that said that a group of three political refugees under their protection had fled the country by stealing a jet and flying it to Canada, presumably heading toward Iran,” Dave said. “They were accompanied by two guards apparently assigned to assist, but there were three in protective custody. Can you send me some of those images?”
Raydon already had his finger poised on the button. “Done,” he said. “The timing works out correct if they traveled from Canada to Central Asia by air.” There was no response. “Genesis, how do you copy Armstrong?”
“Sorry, Kai, I was reading here,” Patrick said, paging through more of the dispatches presented in his search. “There’s another report uploaded from the Minnesota Civil Air Patrol to the Air Force and copied to Air National Guard headquarters and the U.S. Department of State. Seems that a unit commander reports that one of his cadets was taken by an Air National Guard unit, claiming that he was supporting a State Department mission to recover the cadet who is purported to be a female descendant of Iranian royalty…”
“In other words, a ‘princess,’” Raydon interjected.
“The Air National Guard crew had two persons that the unit commander recognized as the cadet’s parents but apparently were in reality the cadet’s bodyguards, along with two more individuals who were security forces accompanying the bodyguards.”
“No shit!” Raydon exclaimed. “You don’t suppose…?”
“It’s quite a stretch from here on out, Kai,” Patrick said. “The State Department can give us more information.”
“Now that you mention them, it’s way above my pay grade,” Raydon said. “I’ll leave it up to you from here on out, sir. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“One question: can you track the three subjects?”
“Sure—for now,” Raydon replied. “Armstrong is tied into several other surveillance satellites, and we can pull information from them. Now if they transfer them to another car or if they stay off the air I’ll probably lose them, but they’re not practicing any COMSEC or OPSEC at all. I think I can track them no sweat.”
“Great, Kai. Keep me posted.”
“Roger that. Armstrong clear.”
Patrick dismissed everyone from the meeting except Dave Luger, then sat back to think. It wasn’t just a stretch to link the persons apparently being apprehended in Ashkhabad with three political refugees from Minnesota…it was almost science fiction. But what if it was true? He wasn’t going to just sit on the information.
Patrick phoned the Secretary of State’s office. No one was available to speak with him—no surprise there—until he drilled all the way down the hierarchy to the assistant undersecretary of state for Central Asian affairs, Norman Moller. “Mr. Moller, good morning, this is General McLanahan, calling from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada, secure.”
“Norman Moller, assistant undersecretary for Central Asian affairs, secure,” Moller recited for the benefit of the dozens of overt and covert listening and recording systems monitoring all government calls these days.
“How are you today, sir?”
“The Patrick McLanahan? The guy who bombed Russia after the Holocaust?”
“Yes, sir. I have a question I’m hoping you can answer.”
“I’ll try.”
“I received information from my intelligence sources that indicate that three foreign persons under the State Department’s protection, ones who recently left Minnesota, were spotted in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, and may have been picked up by the Iranians. Can you confirm this for me?”
There was a considerable silence on the phone, long enough to confirm in Patrick’s mind that his and Raydon’s guesses were correct. Finally: “I’ll have to call you back to confirm your identity, General,” Moller said. “I’ll be in touch shortly. Good-bye. Moller clear.”
In Washington-speak “shortly” could means five minutes or five days, Patrick knew. He let out a breath…loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “You stirring up more shit, Muck?” he asked. “What are you thinking about?”
“I want to find out who the Iranians and Turkmenis captured at that bazaar in Turkmenistan,” Patrick said.
“That station’s sensors are really incredible, and the technology is twenty years old,” Dave said. “Just wait till we start upgrading the processors. But I digress. Why do you care about this particular contact—you have a thing about princesses? Maybe the troops captured a good-looking female nomad and that’s their pet nickname for her.”
“It’s not just about the princess—it’s about what to do about Iran,” Patrick said. “Buzhazi is going to need a lot more help if he hopes to battle the Pasdaran for control of the Iranian government. Remember all the stuff in the news lately about former Persian monarchs and their families living in the United States?”
“Yeah—I thought it was just fluff pieces,” Dave said. “Some royal family wishing to return in case the fundamentalist government is brought down—not the most recent royal family, but one from before the Shah. I can’t remember his name. The guy has a blog on the Internet. I think he uses it to send secret instructions to his loyalists in Iran or something.” He logged into his computer at his console beside Patrick and punched in instructions.
“Well, Ashkhabad is very close to the Iranian border,” Patrick said. “If someone was going to sneak across, that would be a good place to do it.”
“Says here that all the children of the heir presumptive of the Qagev dynasty, the last true monarchy in power in Iran before the revolution, were killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards after Khomeini took power,” Dave said. “So the ‘princess’ thing might be going nowhere.” He surfed a few more sites. “There are kids still around from the Pahlavi dynasty living in America.”
“In Minnesota?”
“Doesn’t say. The previous dynasty’s heir lives near Dallas. Want me to call the State Department and ask?”
“Already did—they hung up on me. I left a message for Carson and CCed Sparks—they can’t ignore me forever.”
“Sounds like you’re right on the mark, or really really warm, and that’s taking the rest of the White House and State Department by surprise,” Dave said.
“What if there were not just a few old monarchs still alive, but they had a following, maybe even an army?” Patrick said. “What if they were all waiting for a time just like now to rise up and try to overthrow the Islamist government?”
“A sleeper army, underground since before the fall of the Shah, big and strong enough to take on the Iranian Revolutionary Guards?” Dave asked. “So what if there is?”
“Then if the princess is part of this sleeper army, maybe even the leader, she needs to be rescued so she can lead her army against the Pasdaran.”
Dave laughed. “Sounds like your space flight has restricted blood flow to your brain, sir,” he said. “So you’re thinking of sending in a Battle Force squad to snatch this princess—if she really is a princess and not just an endearing term used by the soldiers for a hooker they found in the bazaar—and set
her on the path of revolution?”
“We’re planning on sending in the Battle Force to hunt for Iranian missiles—this would be a good reason to go in and probe Iran’s northeastern frontier,” Patrick said. “If there is an Iranian princess, and she has followers, they can help our guys get into the country.”
“I don’t think we need help getting into the country, Muck,” Dave said. But his mind was beginning to churn now as well. “We can certainly use all the local support we can get. But we’re not fighting Turkmenistan. If we drop a squad in there, aren’t we stirring up more trouble rather than trying to contain trouble? We should try to get some kind of cooperation from the Turkmenis—if that’s even possible.”
Patrick thought for another moment; then: “Then why not ask the guy in charge?” he remarked. He picked up the phone and spoke, “Duty Officer, call President Jalaluddin Turabi in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan. Private line.”
“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computerized ever-present voice of Dreamland’s virtual information and access service responded. “Please stand by.” Patrick hung up the phone.
“Assuming he knows anything,” Dave said. “He may be the president, but the Russians still have their boots on his neck pretty well.”
“We’ll find out.” A few minutes later the phone rang, and Patrick picked it up. “General McLanahan.”
“This is Rejep Aydogdijev, assistant deputy chief of staff to President Turabi of Turkmenistan,” a heavily accented voice said in halting English. “All communications with the president from overseas must originate from our embassy in Washington. Good night.” And the call was abruptly terminated.
“Ever get tired of being hung up on, Muck?” Dave deadpanned.
“Yes—but hopefully this won’t be one of them,” Patrick said calmly. He surfed a bit around the Internet, mostly on sites regarding the Qagev dynasty of Iran and its surviving members. “Where’s Hal?”
Dave summoned Hal Briggs to the command center via the “Duty Officer. What do you have in mind, Muck?” he asked after Hal acknowledged the order.
“It depends on what Jalaluddin says.”
“You going to call the State Department and ask…?”
Just then the phone beeped. Patrick smiled, shook his head, held up a finger, and spoke: “McLanahan here.” He noted the line was secure—he must have been working late in the office.
“My old friend the troublemaker,” Jalaluddin Turabi greeted him. “I hope you and your son are well.”
“We are very well, Jala,” Patrick replied. “How is your new wife?”
“She drinks like a Russian, spends money like a Saudi—but fortunately makes love like a Californian. She has already honored me with two healthy sons.”
“Congratulations.”
“Why do you call, my friend?”
“I want to ask about a certain incident in the Tolkuchka Bazaar yesterday. I’ll ask plainly—did the Iranians capture an Iranian princess and her family?”
Patrick heard a loud commotion in the background—it was Turabi, obviously chastising someone, loudly trying to chase them out of earshot. A few moments later: “So. Are your eyes on the ground or still in the sky?”
“In the sky—for now.”
“We see your big space station over us almost every night now, and I tell my men, the Americans will be critiquing everyone’s lovemaking skills, so be diligent,” Turabi said with a laugh. “Well, my friend, all of your eyes are very good—as I well know. Yes, it is true: the Shahdokht Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the surviving heir to the Qagev royal dynasty, was captured in the bazaar shortly after she arrived from a flight from Canada via Istanbul.”
“I thought all the king’s children were murdered by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”
“Apparently not, my friend.”
“The Iranians have her?”
“One of my military police battalion commanders, more loyal to the Iranians than to their own people—or paid off better—assisted the deputy chief of mission Fattah to place several pro-monarchy loyalists under surveillance and capture them once they were found,” Turabi said. “But it was only the daughter, Azar, not the mother and father. The daughter was accompanied by two bodyguards. I believe they were taken to the federal jail here in the capital.”
“I would rather not assault your jail, Jala,” Patrick said, “so if it’s possible to sneak her out, I can snatch her. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Turabi said. “I can advise you when we have her, and then you can, as you put it, ‘snatch’ her.”
“Thank you, Jala. You can loudly and publicly protest any actions that may take place in your country in the next few days,” Patrick said.
“That I can do very easily, my friend—you can be assured of that,” Turabi said. “We have spoken long enough, and I do not want to hear any more anyway. Peace be with you, my friend.” And the connection was broken.
Hal Briggs and Chris Wohl returned to the command center when Patrick hung up, and Hal had someone with him that Patrick did not recognize. “Sir, I’d like to introduce you to Captain Charlie Turlock,” Hal said.
Patrick got to his feet, confusion evident in his face. “Charlie Turlock?” The more confused he looked the broader the smile became on Hal’s face.
“Problem, sir?” Turlock asked.
Patrick glanced at Hal’s smile, nodded knowingly, and shook Turlock’s hand. “Sorry, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs failed to inform me that Charlie Turlock was a woman. Is that your real name, a nickname, or a call-sign?”
“Unfortunately ’Charlie’ is my real first name, sir,” the newcomer replied. “My dad wanted a son and thought I’d need a boy’s name to make it in the world, and out of respect for him I never changed it.”
“And I suppose you like seeing the confused faces of the men who make incorrect assumptions about you and don’t do their homework.”
Turlock smiled. “Something like that, sir.”
“I’ll deal with General Briggs later. Welcome to Dreamland.”
“Thank you, sir,” Charlie said. She was a little over average height, with strawberry-blond hair pulled up and off her shoulders, revealing a long, graceful, athletically tanned neck. Other than her dancing green eyes it was hard to make out any distinguishing features about her, dressed as she was in her army combat uniform, but the one thing Patrick did notice was her supreme air of confidence. Most junior officers and enlisted personnel withered and shriveled in the presence of so many stars and stripes in one room, but Turlock definitely wasn’t one of them. “I’ve heard all the stories and rumors about this place, and I’ve always wanted to visit. I assume there’s a lot more to this place than what you see when you drive on post?”
“Sure is, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs will show you around. I’m looking forward to seeing a demonstration of your Cybernetic Infantry Devices. I’ve seen their aftermath on TV, of course, but I’d like to get an up-close and personal tour.”
“The CID units, sir?” Charlie asked, confused. “I assumed you were interested in the National Guard’s next-generation airships—that’s what I’m prepared to demonstrate for you.”
“I am, Charlie, but my primary interest right now is the CID units,” Patrick said.
“I don’t have access to any of the CID units any more,” Charlie admitted. “The program was canceled and I’ve since lost track of the CIDs. I don’t even know if the Infantry Transformational Battlelab at Fort Polk assigned anyone else to the project—I wouldn’t even know whom to refer you to.”
“We know all about the CID program—in fact, we bought it,” Patrick said.
“You bought the Cybernetic Infantry Device program? All of it?”
“It seems the Army was rather anxious to get rid of the four CID units they had. They didn’t let them go cheaply, but they gave us everything—almost your entire lab at Fort Polk. The units, your computers, files, and equipment are in your new facility. We don�
�t have anything plugged in or set up, but we have guys ready to help you, and we can get more technical or specialized help fairly quickly.”
“‘Help me?’ Help me do what, sir?”
“Help you set up your lab here at Dreamland and develop them for the Air Battle Force ground forces, under my command,” Hal Briggs said.
“What does the Air Force want with manned robots?”
“The Air Battle Force combines both air and ground strike forces into one integrated unit, Charlie,” Hal said. “Our specialty is sending small, high-tech, highly mobile forces anywhere in the world in less than a day, and we’re working on technology that will get them there even quicker.”
“Like a Marine Recon force?” Charlie asked, looking at Chris Wohl.
“Think half the size, three times the speed, and four times the firepower,” Hal said. “But your CID units have capabilities that even our Tin Men don’t have.”
“‘Tin Men’?”
“Our version of CID,” Dave said. “Not as armored or strong as CID, but ten times as capable as an infantry soldier in the field.”
“You’re offering me a job out here?”
“Your official base of operations will be Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base up in northern Nevada,” Patrick said, “but you’ll test and evaluate your systems down here in Dreamland. You’ll be deployed quite often with the Air Battle Force and with other agencies. If you don’t mind moving out to the high desert and working in a place where everything you do is monitored twenty-four-seven, we’d be thrilled to have you.”
“Moving to Vegas sounds cool, sir—the monitoring thing, not so cool,” Charlie admitted. “Is that necessary?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Patrick said. “You get used to it. Dave, Hal, and I have all been wired for sound for almost twenty years.”
“‘Wired for sound…?’”
“I can’t get into details yet,” Patrick said. “Hal can explain more after the necessary waivers and disclosures are signed. If you don’t agree it’s the place for you, we’ll send you back to the Guard training center in Los Alamitos, and we’ll get to work on the CIDs ourselves.”