Rogue Forces

by Dale Brown

  “Listen to me, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “I can’t do this without you. We’ve been in Ankara together for too many years, in the National Assembly and in Çancaya. Our country is under siege. We can’t just talk any longer.”

  “I promise you, Mr. President, I will do everything in my power to make the world realize that we need help to stop the PKK,” Akas said. “Don’t let your hatred and frustration lead you to bad decisions or rash actions.” She stepped closer to Hirsiz. “The republic is counting on us, Kurzat.”

  Hirsiz looked like a man who had been beaten and tortured for days. He nodded. “You’re right, Ays¸e,” he said. “The republic is counting on us.” He turned to the military chief of staff, General Abdullah Guzlev: “Do it, General.”

  “Yes, sir,” Guzlev said, and he went to the president’s desk and picked up a phone.

  “Do what, Kurzat?” Akas asked.

  “I’m accelerating the deployment of the armed forces,” Hirsiz said. “We’ll be ready to begin the operation in a few days.”

  “You cannot begin a military offensive without a declaration of war by the National Assembly,” Akas said. “I assure you, we don’t have the votes yet. Give me more time. I’m sure I can convince—”

  “We won’t need the votes, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said, “because I’m instituting a state of emergency and dissolving the National Assembly.”

  Akas’s eyes bugged out in complete shock. “You’re what…?”

  “We have no choice, Ays¸e.”

  “We? You mean, your military advisers? General Ozek? They’re your advisers now?”

  “The situation demands action, Ays¸e, not talk,” Hirsiz said. “I was hoping you’d help us, but I’m prepared to take action without you.”

  “Don’t do it, Kurzat,” Akas said. “I know the situation is grave, but don’t make any rash decisions. Let me gather support from the Americans and the United Nations. They are sympathetic to us. The American vice president will listen. But if you do this, we’ll lose all support from everyone.”

  “I’m sorry, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “It’s done. You may inform the National Assembly and Supreme Court if you wish, or I will.”

  “No, it’s my responsibility,” Akas said. “I will tell them of the agony you are experiencing at the loss of so many citizens of Turkey at the hands of the PKK.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I will also tell them that your anger and frustration has turned you insane and blood-drunk,” Akas said. “I will tell them that your military advisers are telling you exactly what they want you to hear instead of what you need to hear. I will tell them that you’re not yourself right now.”

  “Don’t do that, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “That would be disloyal, to me and to Turkey. I’m doing this because it needs to be done, and it is my responsibility.”

  “Isn’t that what they say is the beginning of madness, Kurzat: to insist that you have responsibilities?” Akas asked. “Is that what all dictators and strongmen say? Is that what Evren said in 1980 or Tagmaç said before him, when they dissolved the National Assembly and took over the government in a military coup? Go to hell.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Don’t wait for the light to appear at the end of the tunnel—stride down there and light the bloody thing yourself.

  —DARA HENDERSON, WRITER

  ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, IRAQ

  THE NEXT DAY

  “It’s total chaos and confusion up there in Ankara, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau said from her office in Washington via a secure satellite video teleconference link. Also attending was vice president Ken Phoenix, meeting with Iraqi leaders and the U.S. ambassador in Baghdad; and Colonel Jack Wilhelm, the commander of U.S. forces in northern Iraq, at Nahla Allied Air Base near the northern city of Mosul. “The Turkish prime minister herself called our ambassador on the carpet for an ass chewing because of an apparent airspace violation by an American aircraft, but now he’s sitting waiting in the outer office under heavy guard because of some security ruckus.”

  “What is the embassy saying, Stacy?” Phoenix asked. “Are they in contact with the ambassador?”

  “Cellular service is currently down, but outages have been the norm for a few days since the rumors of a state of emergency, Mr. Vice President,” Barbeau said. “Government radio and TV have been describing numerous demonstrations both for and against Hirsiz’s government, but they’ve mostly been peaceful and the police are handling it. The military has been quiet. There was some kind of gunfire incident at the Pink Palace, but the Presidential Guard says the president is safe and will address the nation later today.”

  “That’s pretty much what the embassy here in Baghdad has been telling me,” Phoenix said. “Baghdad is concerned about the confusing news but hasn’t bumped up readiness levels.”

  “I need an explanation of what happened on the Iraq-Turkish border, Colonel Wilhelm,” Barbeau said. “The Turks claim they shot down an American unmanned spy plane over their territory, and they’re hopping mad.”

  “I can assure everyone that all American aircraft, unmanned or otherwise, are accounted for, ma’am,” Wilhelm said, “and we’re not missing any aircraft.”

  “Does that include your contractors, Colonel?” Barbeau asked pointedly.

  “It does, ma’am.”

  “Who operates reconnaissance aircraft operating along the border? Is it that Scion Aviation International outfit?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They operate two large and pretty high-tech long-range recon planes, and they’re bringing in smaller unmanned aircraft to supplement their activities.”

  “I want to talk with the rep right now.”

  “He’s standing by, ma’am. General?”

  “‘General’?”

  “The guy from Scion is a retired Air Force general, ma’am.” Barbeau’s eyes blinked in confusion—obviously she didn’t have that information. “Most of our contractors are retired or former military.”

  “Well, where is he? Isn’t he working there with you, Colonel?”

  “He doesn’t usually operate out of the Command and Control Center,” Wilhelm explained, “but out on the flight line. He’s networked his aircraft in with the Triple-C and to our few remaining assets.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, Colonel,” Barbeau complained, “and I hope the Scion guy can make some sense and give us some answers. Get him on the line now.”

  Just then a new window popped open on the videoconference screen, and Patrick McLanahan, wearing a lightweight gray vest over a white collared shirt, nodded at the camera. “Patrick McLanahan, Scion Aviation International, secure.”

  “McLanahan?” Stacy Barbeau exploded, partially rising out of her seat. “Patrick McLanahan is a defense contractor in Iraq?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Miss Secretary of State,” Patrick said. “I assumed Secretary Turner had briefed you on Scion’s management.”

  He suppressed a smile as he saw Barbeau struggling for control of her senses and voluntary muscles. The last time he had seen her was less than two years earlier when she was still the senior senator from Louisiana and the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Patrick, who had surreptitiously returned from Armstrong Space Station, where he was under virtual house arrest, supervised loading Barbeau aboard an XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane to fly her from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada to Naval Air Station Patuxent River in Maryland—a flight that took less than two hours.

  Of course, Barbeau remembered none of this, because Patrick had had Hunter “Boomer” Noble seduce and then sedate her in a luxury hotel-casino suite in Las Vegas to prepare for her brief flight into space.

  Patrick’s armored Tin Men and Cybernetic Infantry Device commandos then spirited her to the presidential retreat at Camp David, subdued the Secret Service and U.S. Navy security forces, and set up a confrontation between her and President Joseph Gardner over the future of the men and women who made up the U.S. Space Defense Fo
rce, which the president was ready to sacrifice in order to make peace with Russia. In exchange for not revealing Gardner’s secret dealings with the Russians, the president had agreed to allow anyone under McLanahan’s command who didn’t want to serve under Gardner to honorably retire from military service…

  …and Patrick ensured the president’s continued cooperation by taking the entire remaining force of six Tin Men and two Cybernetic Infantry Device combat systems with him, along with spare parts, weapon packs, and the plans to make more of them. The advanced armored infantry performance enhancement systems had already proven they could defeat the Russian and Iranian armies as well as the U.S. Navy SEALs, and infiltrate the most highly guarded presidential retreats in the world—Patrick knew he had a lot of backup just in case the president tried to relieve himself of his McLanahan issue.

  “Is there a problem here, Miss Secretary?” Vice President Phoenix asked. “I know you’ve met General McLanahan before.”

  “I assure you, we made all the proper notifications and filings—I did them myself through the Air Force Civil Augmentee Agency,” Patrick said. “There’s been no conflict of—”

  “Can we please get on with this?” Stacy Anne Barbeau suddenly blurted perturbedly. Patrick smiled to himself: he knew that a seasoned political pro like Barbeau knew how to pull herself into the here and now, no matter how utterly shocked she became. “General, it’s nice to see you hale and hearty. I should have known that retirement would never mean a rocking chair on the porch to someone like you.”

  “I think you know me too well, Miss Secretary.”

  “And I also know that you are not shy about stepping right on, and sometimes sneaking a foot or two across, the boundaries in your eagerness to get a job done,” Barbeau went on directly. “We received complaints from the Turks about stealthy aircraft, perhaps unmanned, overflying Turkish airspace without permission. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but this has your fingerprints all over it. What exactly did you do?”

  “Scion’s contract is to provide integrated surveillance, intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and data communications relay support services on the Iraq-Turkey border,” Patrick said. “Our primary platform for this function is the XC-57 multipurpose airlift aircraft, which is a turbofan-powered manned or unmanned aircraft that can be fitted with a variety of mission modules to change its function. We also employ smaller unmanned aircraft that—”

  “Get to the bottom line, General,” Barbeau snapped. “Did you or did you not cross the Iraq-Turkey border?”

  “No, ma’am, we did not—at least, not with any of our aircraft.”

  “What in hell does that mean?”

  “The Turks fired at a false target we inserted into their Patriot acquisition and tracking computers via their phased-array radar,” he said.

  “I knew it! You did provoke the Turks into launching their missiles!”

  “Part of our contracted reconnaissance mission is to analyze and categorize all threats in this area of responsibility,” Patrick explained. “After the attack on Second Regiment in Zakhu, I consider the Turkish army and border guards a threat.”

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you, General, that Turkey is an important ally, in NATO and the entire region—they are not the enemy,” Barbeau said hotly. It was clear to everyone whom she believed the enemy really was. “Allies don’t spoof each other’s radars, cause them to waste two million dollars’ worth of missiles on chasing ghosts, or incite fear and mistrust in an area that is already undergoing a critical level of fear. I’m not going to let you disrupt our diplomatic efforts just so you can test out some new gadget or make your investors a little money.”

  “Madam Secretary, the Turks moved their Patriot batteries farther west, opposing Iraq instead of just Iran,” Patrick said. “Did the Turks advise us of this?”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions, General. You’re here to answer mine…!”

  “Madam Secretary, we also know that the Turks have long-range artillery systems similar to the ones they used to attack Second Regiment in Zakhu,” Patrick went on. “I want to see what the Turks are planning. The shake-up in their military high command, and now the loss of communications from the embassy, tell me that something is going on, possibly something serious. I recommend we—”

  “Pardon me, General, but I am also not here to take your recommendations,” Secretary of State Barbeau interjected. “You’re a contractor, not a member of the cabinet or the staff. Now you listen to me, General: I want all of your tracking data, radar pictures, and whatever other stuff you’ve gathered since your company signed the contract. I want—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t give it to you,” Patrick said.

  “What did you say to me?”

  “I said, Madam Secretary, that I can’t turn any of it over to you,” Patrick repeated. “The data belongs to U.S. Central Command—you’ll have to ask them for it.”

  “Don’t play games with me, McLanahan. I’m going to have to explain what you did to Ankara. It looks like it’ll be another case of contractors overstepping their boundaries and operating too independently. Any costs incurred by the Turks for your actions will come out of your pocket, not the U.S. Treasury’s.”

  “That’ll be for a court to decide,” Patrick said. “In the meantime, the information we collect belongs to Central Command, or whoever they designate to receive it, such as Second Regiment. Only they can decide who gets it. Any other information or resources not covered by the contract with the government belong to Scion Aviation International, and I can’t release it to anyone without a contract or a court order.”

  “You want to play hardball with me, mister, fine,” Barbeau snapped. “I’ll slap a lawsuit on you and your company so fast it’ll make your head spin. In the meantime, I’m going to recommend to Secretary Turner to cancel your contract so we can prove to the Turkish government that this won’t happen again.” Patrick said nothing. “Colonel Wilhelm, I’m going to recommend to the Pentagon that you resume security operations along the border area until we can get another contractor in to take over. Await further orders to that effect.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Barbeau made a swiping motion across her camera with the back of a hand, and her image disappeared. “Thanks, General,” Wilhelm said angrily. “I’m flat-footed here. It’ll take me weeks to get replacements sent in, equipment returned and unpacked, and patrols set up again.”

  “We don’t have weeks, Colonel, we have days,” Patrick said. “Mr. Vice President, I’m sorry about the diplomatic row I’ve caused, but we learned a great deal. Turkey is gearing up for something. We have to be ready for it.”

  “Like what? Your Iraq invasion theory?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s happened to make you think this invasion in imminent?”

  “Plenty has happened, sir,” Patrick responded. “Scion’s own analysis shows that the Turks now have twenty-five thousand Jandarma paramilitary troops within three days’ march of Mosul and Irbil, and another three divisions—one hundred thousand regular infantry, armor, and artillery troops—within a week’s march.”

  “Three divisions?”

  “Yes, sir—that’s nearly as many troops as the United States had in Iraq at the height of Operation Iraqi Freedom, except the Turks are concentrated in the north,” Patrick said. “Those ground forces are backed up by the largest and most advanced air force between Russia and Germany. Scion believes they’re poised to strike. The recent resignation of Turkey’s military leadership, and this very recent confusion and loss of contact with the embassy in Ankara, confirm my fears.”

  There was a long pause on the line; Patrick saw the vice president lean back in his seat and rub his face and eyes—in confusion, fear, doubt, disbelief, or all four, he couldn’t tell. Then: “General, I didn’t know you that well when you worked in the White House,” Phoenix said. “Most of what I know is what I heard in the Oval Office and Cabinet Room, usually during someone’s a
ngry tirade aimed at you. You have a reputation for two things: pissing a lot of people off…and making timely, correct analyses.

  “I’m going to talk to the president and recommend that Secretary Barbeau and I make a visit to Turkey, to meet with President Hirsiz and Prime Minister Akas,” he went on. “Stacy can be in charge of making apologies. I’m going to ask President Hirsiz what’s going on, what he thinks his situation is politically and security-wise, and what the United States can do to help. The situation is obviously getting out of hand, and simply declaring the PKK a terrorist outfit is not enough. We should be doing more to help the Republic of Turkey.

  “I am also going to recommend, General, that you be allowed to continue your surveillance operations on the Iraq-Turkey border,” Phoenix went on. “I don’t think he’ll buy it, but if Colonel Wilhelm says it’ll take weeks to get back into position, we don’t have much choice. Obviously, there will be no more of that netrusion stuff against the Turks without express permission from the Pentagon or the White House. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Colonel Wilhelm, Secretary Barbeau is not in your chain of command, and neither am I. You should follow your last set of orders. But I’d recommend being on the defensive and ready for anything, just in case the general’s theory comes true. I don’t know how much warning you’ll get. Sorry about the confusion, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  “That’s the way it goes most of the time, sir,” Wilhelm said. “Message understood.”

  “I’ll be in touch. Thank you, gents.” The vice president nodded to someone off camera, and his worried, conflicted visage disappeared.

  THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Patrick McLanahan is in Iraq!” Secretary of State Stacy Anne Barbeau shrieked as she strode into the Oval Office. “I just spoke with him on the conference call with Phoenix and the Army. McLanahan is in charge of aerial reconnaissance in all of northern Iraq! How in hell could that guy surface in Iraq and we not know about it?”