Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  “That’s my point, Patrick: should we attack the Revolutionary Guards, or even have strike aircraft over Iran in the first place, if we think Tehran will just attack insurgent forces inside its own borders?” Maureen asked. “My opinion is, we should not. Iranians killing Iranians is tragic and despicable, but it’s not a reason for us to go to war. Theirs is not an act of war…ours most certainly would be.”

  “Maureen…er, ma’am, I’m informing the national security staff that I have forces in place that I think have a very good chance of taking out Iran’s long-range missile force,” Patrick said, painfully aware that he was speaking much more sharply at Maureen than he liked. “I’m not guaranteeing that I can neutralize Iran’s Revolutionary Guards or even neutralize all their missiles—all I’m saying is, I can send my forces into action in hours and reduce Iran’s ability to threaten its neighbors or attack its own people. All I need is a decision from this group whether or not to send me in and do it.”

  President Martindale looked at his vice president, then over at Patrick quizzically. “I thought you two would have a closer meeting of the minds,” he said in a quiet voice. He turned to the Secretary of State. “Mary, get in contact with someone in charge in Tehran. I want to impress on them the seriousness of the situation here. And prepare a statement for the allies, informing them of the capture of one of our commandos and that we are contemplating a military response.”

  “Yes, sir,” Secretary of State Mary Carson said. She picked up her phone on the conference table, gave instructions to the Signals officer and then to her staff at the State Department, then hung up to wait for a callback. “The U.S. affairs office in the Swiss embassy in Tehran informed us that they have been dealing with an Ayatollah Hassan Mohtaz, who is the chief military adviser to President Ahmadad, similar to our national security adviser—he’s apparently the senior leader in the government, or the one picked to stay in public view. I asked to speak with him directly. My staff is drafting an urgent flash e-mail to NATO and the Gulf Cooperative Council states.”

  “Who do you have inside Iran right now, Patrick?” Maureen asked.

  “Master Sergeant Wohl is still in Iran, traveling with the Qagev princess,” Patrick said. “Captain Noble and the body of Captain Lefferts are somewhere in Khorāsān province with Qagev partisans, awaiting exfiltration.”

  “What? You left Noble with a bunch of unknown Iranian revolutionaries?” Gardner retorted. “Why didn’t the master sergeant go with him?”

  “It was Master Sergeant Wohl’s decision, and I reluctantly authorized it,” Patrick said. “Wohl’s mission was to rescue the Qagev leadership from the Iranians, return them to their underground network, stay with them, and report back on their capabilities, organization, and progress. Captain Hunter is needed back at Dreamland to fly the Black Stallion spaceplanes—they’re headed in opposite directions. We decided the best course of action was to trust Boomer with the partisans.”

  “You trust the Qagevs so much that you’d risk Noble’s life with those Iranians?” Maureen asked. “Noble would fetch a hefty bounty if they decided to turn him over to Ahmodod.”

  “It was a risk we had to take, ma’am,” Patrick explained. “We’re in constant communications with Captain Noble, and we know exactly where he is through his hypodermal transceiver. An Air Force Special Operations team is en route from Afghanistan to meet up with them—they should rendezvous in less than two hours from now. He’ll be flown from Herat, Afghanistan back to the United States aboard a Black Stallion spaceplane. He’ll be home about six hours from now.” The President and most of his advisers in the Oval Office shook their heads at that news, hardly believing that someone could be taken from the middle of nowhere in western Asia back to the United States so quickly.

  Secretary of Defense Gardner, however, was not impressed. “Any more forces in Iran?” he asked accusingly. “What about in the region? Who else have you sent out that way, other than a ten-billion-dollar space station and several dozen mini-satellites?”

  “I deployed exactly what I briefed the national security staff earlier, Mr. Secretary,” Patrick said. “I ordered two EB-1C Vampire flying battleships deployed to Diego Garcia. They should arrive in about fourteen hours. They are carrying Condor special ops transport aircraft, each with a force of two Tin Man and CID ground units. They can be armed for suppression of enemy air defense, ground attack, or anti-air missions after they deploy the Condor transports. I have one AL-52 Dragon anti-missile laser aircraft deployed to Diego Garcia as well.”

  “So you propose to locate and destroy all of the Iranian ballistic missile sites with four commandos, three bombers, and two spaceplanes?” Gardner asked incredulously. “It’s not possible. And do you expect to do all this without the Iranians finding out about it and screaming bloody murder? What if they discover your guys or your stealth bombers, fear we’re executing an all-out attack, panic, and decide to launch every biochem and nuke they have at Israel, Bahrain, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, or Kuwait? Will your toys stop them? If one nuke gets through and hits just one city like Tel Aviv or Doha, an entire nation ceases to exist. A dozen supertankers pass within Iranian anti-ship missile range every day. Are you going to take all those missile sites out as well too?”

  “My concern is with Iran’s ballistic missiles…”

  “Why are they more important than Iran’s anti-ship missiles or weapons of mass destruction, General?” Gardner retorted. “You’ve lost perspective here, General.” He turned to the President and went on, “Mr. President, McLanahan’s plan is impressive and very high-tech, and we’ve all seen his weapons’ effectiveness over the years, but unless we take the time to mobilize follow-on and defensive forces, we’re leaving ourselves wide open to disaster. An Iranian counterattack could be devastating.”

  “But if we do nothing, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards strike…”

  “Then they’ll have the blood of their own people on their hands,” Maureen said. “But if we strike, and the Iranians retaliate, we could possibly lose millions of friendly forces and allies. It’s too big of a gamble, Patrick.”

  “But if we do nothing, we may be passing up our best chance of assisting a people’s revolution in Iran,” Patrick said. “Master Sergeant Wohl is traveling with the Qagev princess, and according to his reports the Qagev have a sizable political, civil, and military infrastructure in place…”

  “Enough to defeat the Revolutionary Guards? I don’t think so,” Director of Central Intelligence Gerald Vista said.

  “It’s another important factor in the array of forces opposing the Pasdaran and the theocratic regime…” McLanahan said.

  “And it could be another complicating factor too, McLanahan,” Vista pointed out. “There’s absolutely no indication whatsoever that the military would accept another monarchy—especially a Qagev, a dynasty that was bloodlessly overthrown almost eighty years ago. Recent surveys indicate that only 30 percent of the population might accept another monarchy.”

  “I’m familiar with those polls—they were taken either in secret during the current regime, or the respondents were Iranian expatriates,” Patrick said. “It’s not representative…”

  “We’re not going to base our foreign policy or military response on surveys and polls, Patrick,” Maureen commented.

  “I agree, ma’am,” Patrick said. “Nevertheless, the monarchists are viable, organized, well-funded, and on the move, and the regular army still hasn’t supported the Pasdaran’s efforts to shut down Buzhazi’s insurgency. We should make every attempt to support any uprisings in Iran.”

  “Now you want to support this Azar Qagev instead of Buzhazi?” the President asked. “Which is it, Patrick?”

  “Both, sir,” Patrick said. “We support both insurgencies and we try to steer the outcome in our favor.”

  “Which is what?” Gardner interjected. “A military junta led by Buzhazi, who at one time was one of the biggest Islamist enforcers of them all? Another
monarchy that lavishes itself with palaces and gold while repressing their people?”

  “Neither, Mr. Secretary,” Patrick said. “As flawed as we believe it is, Iran is a democracy, and an overwhelming majority of the people want a democracy. Frankly, I don’t think it matters if the people rally behind a general that uses his power to destroy the Pasdaran and strip the theocrats from their grip on the government, or a historical monarchy that brought that country into the twentieth century and made it an important Western ally. What we care about is that Iran becomes a stable, open, representative society, able to defend itself and its government against hostile and repressive forces.” He looked at each one of the presidential advisers, then said, “Or we can just pull our guys out, then sit back and simply watch what happens next.”

  Most of the advisers and Cabinet officials shook their heads at Patrick’s speech-making but fell silent and looked at the President, not offering any more arguments. The President looked at them knowingly. He knew that McLanahan’s arguments made sense to them—they were just miffed that McLanahan was making them.

  Secretary of State Carson’s computer terminal beeped, and she scrolled through the messages. “Response from the Iranian government through the Swiss embassy, sir,” she said as she read. “Looks like it might be going out over the news wires and Middle East news outlets soon too.”

  The President could see the consternation growing on her face. “What did they say, Mary?”

  “They say, ‘The Iranian Revolutionary Guards have captured a spy that killed several of their embassy staff just outside Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, who were out on cooperative security maneuver exercises with their Turkmeni counterparts,” Carson read. “‘The Americans have claimed responsibility for the attacks, making President Martindale completely and personally liable for the murders. The captured spy and other evidence recovered at the scene of the murders is being held and analyzed for the upcoming trial.”

  “Bastards,” the President muttered.

  “The message further states, ‘The Iranian government believes that the American military spy was assisting anti-Iranian terrorist and insurgent forces to illegally infiltrate into Iran, recruit and train anti-government rebel forces, attack Iranian military, civilian, and government targets, work with the insurgents to disrupt or destroy the democratically elected government, and attack Muslim holy sites and supply centers that help the poor and underprivileged, such as what occurred in Qom and Arān,’” Carson went on. “‘The Iranian government condemns this irrational and unprovoked hostile action, and it calls upon the peaceful law-abiding nations of the world to join the Islamic Republic in indicting the United States and President Martindale for committing these atrocious acts.

  “‘If the United States continues its illegal covert war, sends military forces within striking range of Iran, sends spy planes, spacecraft, space weapons, military space platforms, and satellites over our territory to pick targets to strike, or continues to foment and support terrorist and separatist actions, the Islamic Republic of Iran has no choice but to retaliate massively and with all means available at a time and place of our choosing against the United States and all of its allies, supporters, client states, and interests around the world.’ There is a bunch of religious citations and the usual call for all devout and loyal Muslims to holy war against America, Israel, and anyone aligned with us. End of message.”

  “Carl, get General Lewars in here and let’s draft up a statement for immediate release to the press,” the President said. Chief of staff Minden was already on the phone to the rest of his people. “Let’s schedule a meeting with the leadership and we’ll get them briefed up too. Mary and I will field the calls from overseas that I expect will start coming in…”

  The computer on the President’s desk beeped, and he glanced at the display. “First up, President Zevitin of Russia,” he said resignedly. Since the American Holocaust, President Martindale had a policy of always taking calls that came directly from a handful of world leaders, and President Leonid Zevitin of Russia was one of them. Martindale got along with Zevitin and usually had productive and open talks with him, but he was dreading this call.

  Zevitin, one of the youngest presidents of Russia at age forty-nine, was the second president of Russia since the American Holocaust just four years ago. He didn’t come from the Party apparatus, government, or the military, but from Russia’s rapidly growing oil, gas, and nuclear energy industry. He was educated in America and Britain and headed several large multinational energy companies in postings around the world before being chosen to head Russia’s energy ministry. His wealth, good looks, charm, and international presence made him popular in Russia as well as around the world, and when the interim military president of Russia suddenly died at the surprisingly young age of sixty-one, Zevitin was elected president in a landslide.

  President Martindale scanned his computer display briefly. Every phone call prompted an automatic page on the computer that offered interesting and sometimes extremely useful and insightful information pertinent to the caller: as well as verifying the caller’s identity and origin, it gave the local time, weather, some headlines, facts on the caller’s family’s names—Zevitin had never been married—recent decisions and legislation supported or rejected by the caller, recent decisions made by the President regarding the caller, and names of the caller’s key advisers and their recent activities. He picked up the phone, and the other advisers in the room picked up theirs so they could listen in. “Mr. President, this is President Martindale, how are you today, sir?”

  “Very well, very well, Mr. President,” Zevitin replied in very good English with a curious mix of Russian, American, and English accents. “Thank you for taking my call.”

  “Not at all, Leonid,” Martindale responded, hoping that using the Russian president’s first name would signal an end to their use of titles. “My national security advisers are listening in as well; I hope that’s all right with you.”

  “It is, sir, and thank you for so advising me,” Zevitin said. “Unfortunately for me, there is only my dog Sashi with me tonight.”

  That was contrary to the usual rumors concerning the playboy antics of the Russian president, but Martindale didn’t feel like calling him on it. “How can I be of service today?”

  “I’m calling about the incident in Ashkhabad, Mr. President,” Zevitin said. Damn, the President thought, he’s keeping with the titles—this was not a good sign. “I was advised of it through our embassy there. First of all, I want to say I’m sorry for the loss of your men.”

  “Thank you, Leonid. Which embassy told you of this incident—the Turkmeni or the Iranian embassy?”

  There was a very slight pause; then: “Both, actually,” he replied. “We also received the general notice from Iran a short time ago. I expect the Iranians to release your man right away, and if you go to the United Nations about it, Russia will join you in calling for the body to be released immediately. The incident happened on Turkmeni soil, not Iranian. They have no right to do what they did.”

  “We’ll go to the United Nations as a matter of routine and diplomatic protocol, Leonid,” the President said, “but we’ll send a message directly to the Iranian government through the Swiss embassy informing them that they have created a serious and dangerous international incident, bordering on an act of war, and that we demand the immediate return of our man and all his equipment and supplies taken in Turkmenistan. If we don’t receive them within twenty-four hours of notification, we’ll take all steps necessary to recover them.”

  “Mr. President, I strongly urge you to play this one carefully and quietly,” Zevitin said. “There is a major societal upheaval going on right now in Iran. Most of the government has been wiped out—murdered—by this nutcase Buzhazi. The Revolutionary Guards are being spurred on by the surviving ultraconservative theocrats that must crack down on the insurgency or find themselves either blown up by insurgents, crushed by the army, or rejected by the people. The
y’ll toss law, civil rights, and basic human decency out the window to save their own hides.”

  “Leonid, I wouldn’t be sad to see the end of the theocracy if it meant a more moderate Iran,” the President said. “What they do to their own people is none of my concern. If they cooperate with us and give us the property they stole while in Turkmenistan, we’d be happy to step aside and let events in Iran take their course.”

  “Then you would not interfere with further events in Iran if you got your man and your property back?”

  “Leonid, I’m not going to tie future events in with the current crisis. Iran has to return our man they murdered and the property they stole…period. I have no other quarrels with Iran presently.”

  “Then why the attack on Iran’s missiles recently, Mr. President?” Zevitin asked. “We know you have sent your secret Dreamland spaceplanes over Iran at least twice and perhaps more than that; we detected an object being launched by the first spaceplane that could have easily been an orbital or suborbital weapon that could have struck inside Iran. The second spaceplane you flew right over Russia without asking permission or even notifying us ahead of time.”

  “That was an error, Leonid, and we acknowledged that and apologized…”

  “I know, I know, Mr. President, and I’m not going to dwell on it,” Zevitin said in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. “I would like you to punish the officer that sent that craft over our country…General Patrick McLanahan, no doubt.” The President said nothing, only glanced at Patrick. “But that can wait for another day.

  “We also know that you have sent several micro-satellites into orbits to cover Iran and have even moved your Armstrong Space Station into a sun-synchronous orbit in order to carefully surveille Iran at specific times of day,” Zevitin went on. “And we have recently received reports that several of your stealth warplanes have been moved to Diego Garcia, just a few hours’ flying time from Iran. It looks like preparation for an invasion to me, Mr. President.”