Rogue Forces

by Dale Brown

  “Bir saniye! Excuse me, sir?” Hirsiz said. There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line, and Gardner heard someone in the background say the word sik, which the computerized translator said meant “head of a penis.” “Pardon me, Mr. President, but as I explained to you, we thought we were attacking PKK terrorists that have only recently killed almost two dozen innocent men, women, and children in a major Turkish city. The incident in Zahuk was a horrible mistake, for which I am fully responsible and sincerely apologize to you, the families of the dead, and the people of America. But this does not give you the right to demand anything from this government.”

  “There’s no reason for obscenities, President Hirsiz,” Gardner said, so flustered and angry that veins stood out on his forehead. He noticed Hirsiz did not deny or dispute the allegation, or was surprised that Gardner knew of it. “We will conduct a full investigation on this attack, and I expect your utmost cooperation. I want your complete assurance that you communicate with us and your NATO partners better in the future so attacks like this won’t happen again.”

  “It was not an attack against your troops or the Iraqis, but against suspected PKK insurgents and terrorists, sir,” Hirsiz said. “Please choose your words more carefully, Mr. President. It was an accident, a tragic mistake that occurred in the defense of the homeland of the Republic of Turkey. I take responsibility for a terrible accident, sir, not an attack.”

  “All right, Mr. President, all right,” Gardner said. “We will be in contact shortly regarding the arrival of forensic, military, and criminal investigators. Good night, sir.”

  “I yi akşamlar. Good night, Mr. President.”

  Gardner slammed the phone down. “Damn, you’d think he lost thirteen men!” he said. “Stacy?”

  “I caught a little of your conversation, Mr. President,” Barbeau said. “The prime minister was apologetic, almost over-the-top so. I felt she was sincere, although she clearly sees it as an accident for which they only share responsibility.”

  “Yeah? And if it was an American rocket barrage and dead Turkish troops, we’d be crucified by not just Turkey but by the entire world—we’d get all the blame and then some,” Gardner said. He sat back in his chair and ran an exasperated hand over his face. “All right, all right, screw the Turks for now. Someone messed up here, and I want to know who, and I want some butts—Turkish, Iraqi, PKK, or Americans, I don’t care, I want some butts.” He turned to the secretary of defense. “Miller, I’m going to appoint a chair to handle the investigation. I want this public—in-your-face, rough, tough, and direct. This is the greatest number of casualties in Iraq since I’ve been in office, and I’m not going to get this administration bogged down in Iraq.” He glanced for a moment at Stacy Barbeau, who made a very slight gesture with her eyes. Gardner picked up on it immediately and turned to the vice president, Kenneth T. Phoenix. “Ken, how about it? You definitely have the background.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” he replied without hesitation. Kenneth Phoenix, just forty-six years old, could have been one of America’s fastest rising political stars—if only he didn’t work so hard. Law degree from UCLA, four years as a judge advocate in the U.S. Marine Corps, four years in the U.S. attorney’s office in the District of Columbia, then various offices in the Department of Justice before being nominated as attorney general.

  In the years after the horror of the American holocaust, Phoenix worked tirelessly to assure the American public and the world that the United States of America would not slip into martial law. He was relentless with lawbreakers and pursued anyone, regardless of political affiliation or wealth, who sought to prey on victims of the Russian attacks. He was equally relentless with Congress and even the White House to make sure that individual rights were not violated as the government got to work rebuilding the nation and resecuring its borders.

  He was so popular with the American people that there was talk of him being nominated for president of the United States to oppose another very popular man, then secretary of defense Joseph Gardner. Gardner had switched party affiliations because of his disagreements with the Martindale administration, and the move hurt his chances of winning. But in a flash of political genius, Joseph Gardner asked Phoenix to be his running mate, even though they were not in the same party. The strategy worked. The voters saw the move as a strong sign of unity and wisdom, and they won in a landslide.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea sending the vice president to Iraq and Turkey, Mr. President?” the chief of staff asked. “It’s still pretty dangerous out there.”

  “I’ve been monitoring the security status of Iraq, and I believe it’s plenty safe for me,” Phoenix said.

  “He’s got a point, Ken,” the president said. “I thought about your qualifications and expertise, not about your safety. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, sir,” Phoenix said. “I’ll do it. It’s important to show how serious we are about this attack—to all the players in the Middle East, not just the Turks.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I’ll keep my head down, sir, don’t worry,” Phoenix said. “I’ll put a team together from the Pentagon, Justice, and National Intelligence and leave tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Gardner nodded and smiled. “I knew I picked the right guy. Okay, Ken, thank you, you’re on. Stacy will get all the clearances you’ll need from Baghdad, Ankara, and anywhere else the investigation takes you. If we need you back in the Senate to break a tie, maybe I’ll send a Black Stallion spaceplane out to get you.”

  “I’d love to get a ride in one, sir. Send one for me, and I’ll take it.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Vice President.” Gardner got to his feet and started to pace. “I know I’ve said I want to draw down our forces in Iraq over sixteen months, but it’s taken longer than I thought. This incident highlights the dangers our troops face out there every day, even when we’re not in direct contact with the enemy. It’s time to talk about drawing down our forces quicker and removing more forces. Thoughts?”

  “The American people will certainly agree, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Barbeau said, “especially after news of this disaster gets out in the morning.”

  “We’ve spoken about the possibility many times, sir,” National Security Adviser Carlyle said. “One mechanized infantry brigade in Baghdad on a twelve-month rotation; one training regiment on a six-month rotation; and we conduct frequent joint training exercises with units deployed from the States for no more than a month or two throughout the country. Day-to-day security and surveillance provided by private contractors, with infrequent special ops missions around the region as needed.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the president said. “One soldier dies and it’s front-page news, but it takes at least six contractors to die before anyone notices. Let’s work up the details and get a plan drawn up pronto.” To his other advisers, he said, “Okay, I want an update on the Iraq attack at the seven a.m. staff briefing. Thank you, everyone.” Just as the group was departing the Oval Office, the president asked, “Secretary Barbeau, a word with you in the study?”

  After the door was closed, the president fixed the former senator from Louisiana a bourbon and water. They toasted each other, then she lightly kissed him on the lips, being careful not to get too much lipstick on him—after all, the first lady was upstairs in the residence. “Thanks for recommending Phoenix, Stacy,” Gardner said. “Good choice—it’ll get him out of here for a change. He’s always underfoot.”

  “I agree—he’s much too curious sometimes,” Barbeau said. She curled her lower lip in a pout. “But I wish you had consulted me first. I can think of a dozen better-qualified persons from our party that could’ve headed the team.”

  “Walter briefed me that there were rumblings in Washington about keeping Phoenix too deep in the background and squashing his political future,” Gardner said.

  “Well, that’s what typically happens to vice presidents.”

  “I know, but I n
eed to keep him on the ticket when I run for the second term, and I don’t want pissed-off party bosses encouraging him to leave so he can run himself,” Gardner said, fixing himself another coffee mug of Puerto Rican rum on ice. “This is a good high-profile assignment that’ll please his supporters, but it’s out of the country with not a lot of media around; it’ll show I’m serious about investigating the incident, but nothing will come of it, so if anyone gets hurt, it’ll be him; but more importantly, it’s a subject that will fade from public attention quickly because it involves dead American soldiers. Send your experts’ names to Phoenix and let’s see if he takes any of them.”

  “Perhaps,” Barbeau said, her eyes glittering with intrigue, “the vice president will forget to duck or put on his body armor, and just like that we’ll need a new vice president.”

  “Je-sus, Stacy, don’t even joke about shit like that,” Gardner breathed. His eyes rose in surprise at her words; he waited to see if she would smile and laugh the dark thought away, but was not shocked to see that she did not.

  “I would never wish any harm on the lovely and hunky Kenneth Timothy Phoenix,” she said. “But he is going into harm’s way, and you need to think about what we’ll do if the worst happens.”

  “I would have to appoint his replacement, of course. I’ve got a list.”

  Barbeau put the bourbon on a table and slowly, tantalizingly, approached the president. “Am I on your list, Mr. President?” she asked in a low, sultry voice, running her fingers under the lapels of his jacket, caressing his chest.

  “Oh, you’re on many lists, darlin.’ But then I’d have to hire a food taster around here, wouldn’t I?”

  She didn’t stop—and, he noticed, she didn’t refute his joke, either. “I don’t want the office by succession, Joe—I know I can earn it on my own,” she said in a low, rather singsong voice. She looked up at him with her beautiful green eyes…and Gardner saw nothing but menace in them. She kissed him lightly on the lips again, her eyes open and staring directly into his, and after the kiss she added, “But I’ll take it any way I can.”

  The president smiled and shook his head ruefully as she headed for the door. “I don’t know who’s in greater danger, Miss Secretary of State: the vice president in Iraq…or whoever gets in your way right here in Washington.”

  RESIDENCE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC OF TURKEY

  THAT SAME TIME

  “How dare he?” Turkish minister of national defense Hasan Cizek stormed as President Hirsiz replaced the receiver on the hook. “That is an insult! Gardner should apologize to you, and do it immediately!”

  “Calm yourself, Minister,” Prime Minister Ays¸e Akas said. With her, Hirsiz, and Cizek was the entire national security staff: secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council General Orhan Sahin, foreign minister Mustafa Hamarat, military chief of staff General Abdullah Guzlev, and Fevsi Guclu, the director of the National Intelligence Organization, which performed all domestic and foreign intelligence operations. “Gardner was upset and not thinking straight. And he heard that obscenity. Are you insane?”

  “Don’t apologize for that drunkard lech, Prime Minister,” Foreign Minister Mustafa Hamarat said. “The president of the United States shouldn’t pop off at a head of state and an ally—I don’t care how tired or upset he is. He lost his head in a time of crisis, and that was wrong.”

  “Everyone, quiet down,” President Kurzat Hirsiz said, holding up his hands almost as if in surrender. “I took no offense. We made the requisite call and apologized—”

  “Groveled is more like it!” Cizek spat.

  “Our rockets killed a dozen Americans and probably several dozen Iraqis, Hasan; maybe a little groveling is warranted here.” Hirsiz scowled at the minister of national defense. “It’s what he says or does next that will tell.” He turned to the secretary-general of the National Security Council. “General, are you absolutely positive that your information was accurate, actionable, and an immediate response was required?”

  “I am positive, sir,” he heard a voice say. He turned and saw General Besir Ozek, commander of the Jandarma, standing in the doorway to his office, with a frightened aide behind him. Ozek had taken off all the bandages on his face, neck, and hands, and the sight was truly repulsive.

  “General Ozek!” Hirsiz blurted out, momentarily shocked by the general’s presence, then nauseated by his appearance. He swallowed hard, squinting against the revulsion he felt, then ashamed for letting the others see it. “I didn’t summon you, sir. You are not well. You should be in hospital.”

  “There was no time to notify the Americans either—and if we did, the information would have been leaked to PKK sympathizers, and the opportunity would have been lost,” Ozek went on, as if the president had not said a word.

  Hirsiz nodded, turning away from Ozek’s awful wounds. “Thank you, General. You are dismissed.”

  “If I may speak freely, sir: my heart is sickened by what I just heard,” Ozek said.

  “General?”

  “Sickened by the number of times I heard the president of the Republic of Turkey apologize like a young boy caught feeding the goldfish to the cat. With all due respect, Mr. President, it was repulsive.”

  “That’s enough, General,” Prime Minister Akas said. “Show some respect.”

  “We were doing nothing more than defending our nation,” Ozek said angrily. “We have nothing to apologize for, sir.”

  “Innocent Americans died, General…”

  “They thought they were chasing al-Qaeda in Iraq terrorists, not PKK,” Ozek retorted. “If the Iraqis had any brains, they would know as well as we that the tunnel complex was a PKK hideout, not al-Qaeda.”

  “Are you sure of this, General?”

  “Positive, sir,” Ozek insisted. “Al-Qaeda insurgents hide and operate in the cities, not the countryside like the PKK. If the Americans bothered to learn this—or if the Iraqis cared—this incident would not have happened.”

  President Hirsiz fell silent and turned away—to think, as well as not to have to look at Ozek’s terrible wounds. “Nevertheless, General, the incident has sparked anger and outrage in Washington, and we must appear conciliatory, apologetic, and utterly cooperative,” he said after a few moments. “They will send investigators, and we must assist their inquiry.”

  “Sir, we can’t let that happen,” Ozek cried. “We can’t let the Americans or the international community keep us from defending this nation. You know as well as I that the focus of any investigation will be about our faults and our policies, not about the PKK or their attacks. We must act, now. Do something, sir!”

  The prime minister’s eyes blazed in anger. “As you were, General Ozek!” she shouted. The veteran Jandarma officer’s eyes blazed, which made his visage even more frightful. The prime minister raised a finger at him to silence his expected retort. “Not another word, General, or I will order Minister Cizek to relieve you of your post, and I will strip the rank off your uniform myself.”

  “If all we had hit were PKK terrorists, few outside our country would have cared about the strike,” Ozek said. “Our people would have seen this as what it truly was: a major victory against the PKK, not an example of military incompetence or racism.”

  “Minister Cizek, you will relieve General Ozek of command,” Akas said.

  “I recommend calm here, Madam Prime Minister…” Cizek sputtered. “There has been a terrible accident, yes, but we were only doing our duty to protect our country…”

  “I said, I want Ozek dismissed!” the prime minister shouted. “Do it now!”

  “Shut up!” President Hirsiz shouted, almost pleading. “Everyone, please shut up!” The president looked as if his internal struggles were ready to tear him apart. He looked at his advisers and seemed to find no answers. Turning back to Ozek, he said in a quiet voice, “Many innocent Americans and Iraqis were killed tonight, General.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” Ozek said. “I take full responsibility. Bu
t will we ever learn how many PKK terrorists we killed tonight? And if the Americans or Iraqis leading this so-called investigation ever told us how many terrorists were eliminated, will we ever get the chance to tell the world what they did to innocent Turks?” Hirsiz did not respond, only stared at a spot on the wall, so Ozek stiffened to attention and turned to leave.

  “Wait, General,” Hirsiz said.

  “You’re not going to consider that idea, Kurzat!” Prime Minister Akas said, her mouth dropping open in surprise.

  “The general is right, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “This is yet another incident for which Turkey will be vilified…” And at that, he reached down, grasped his chair with both hands, and toppled it over with a quick thrust: “and I am sick of it! I am not going to look into the eyes of Turkish men and women and make more promises and excuses! I want it to end. I want the PKK to fear this government…no, I want the Americans, the Iraqis, the whole world to fear us! I’m tired of being everyone’s patsy! Minister Cizek!”

  “Sir!”

  “I want to see a plan of action on my desk as soon as possible, outlining an operation to destroy the PKK training camps and facilities in Iraq,” Hirsiz said. “I want to minimize noncombatant casualties, and I want it quick, efficient, and thorough. We know we’re going to get blasted by the entire world, and the pressure will be on to withdraw almost from day one, so it will have to be an operation that is fast, effective, and massive.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cizek said. “With pleasure.”

  Hirsiz stepped over to Ozek and placed his hands on the general’s shoulders, this time not afraid of looking him in his badly injured face. “I vow,” he said, “never to have one of my generals take responsibility for an operation I authorized. I am the commander in chief. When this operation begins, General, if you’re up to it, I want you to lead the forces that will strike at the heart of the PKK. If you’re strong enough to get out of a crashed plane and then come here to Ankara to confront me, you’re strong enough to crush the PKK.”