Air Battle Force

Gurizev jabbed a finger at another phone, and the air force general picked it up and called his headquarters. “This… this is most unusual, sir,” Gurizev said. “We… we shall of course immediately investigate your information.”

“Please do,” Thorn said. “We regret the loss of life, but it was necessary to save the lives of former president Martindale, Deputy Secretary of State Hershel, and the others on that plane.”

“How was the pilot killed, sir, if as you claim you have only reconnaissance and defensive aircraft over Turkmenistan?”

“I’d rather not reveal how at this time, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “But it was an American warplane that shot the MiG down — after we observed him attacking our diplomatic mission with heat-seeking air-to-air missiles. We have even identified the missiles — they were AA-11 ‘Archer’ missiles, what the Russians call the R-73M2, one of Russia’s most advanced weapons.”

Gurizev looked over at his air force chief of staff, and when he saw the man’s blank, confused expression, he had to carefully suppress a gasp. “Could you hold the line, please?”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Gurizev placed the call on hold with a shaking hand. “Get that son of a bitch Russian military liaison officer over here now!” The air force officer issued the order, listened, then peered at the phone. “What in hell is it now?”

“The operator cannot contact the Russian defense liaison’s office. There is no answer.”

“What?” The Turkmen chief of the general staff grabbed the phone away from the air force commander. He barked orders into the phone, but soon he, too, was dumbfounded. “No response from the Russian liaison, and now the direct line to my office is completely out. What in blazes is going on?”

“Could this be true?” Gurizev thundered. “The Russian fighter was shot down—by an American combat aircraft?”

“The MiG should have already returned to Krasnovodsk,” the general said, checking his watch. “It would have run out of fuel long ago.”

“Could it have carried the weapons Thorn described?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Yop tvayu mat!” Gurizev swore loudly in Russian. He often forgot his adopted Turkmen language when he was nervous, excited, enraptured — or scared. “How in hell could the Americans know all this?”

“They must have sent stealth aircraft over our country to escort the American diplomatic aircraft,” the chief of staff said as he stood with the phone to his ear. “We must assume that the Americans have more such aircraft overhead right this very minute.”

“My God… this cannot be happening,” Gurizev muttered. “This is unbelievable.” He looked at the phone in his hand, then punched the blinking line button. “President Thorn, I apologize for placing you on hold. We are unable at this time to get independent confirmation of your assertions. We must be allowed to investigate this matter further.”

“President Gurizev, you can’t get through to your Russian liaison officer and your defense staff because the Russians have cut off all government communications going in or out of the capital,” Thorn said. “We have detected several cargo planes landing at Krasnovodsk and Ashkhabad. Assuming each plane holds only one hundred soldiers plus their equipment, we estimate at least a battalion-size invasion force is marching against your position right now.”

“A Russian invasion force? Why?”

“My guess is Russia intends to take over the government to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Taliban or any other foreign power,” Thorn said. “You have only a few minutes to evacuate your offices — it may already be too late. Mr. President, if you need my help, ask. Give me permission to send military forces into your country, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

This time Gurizev didn’t bother putting the call on hold — he was too scared or confused to know what to do with his hands. “Where is Kasimov? Why is he not briefing me on the state of our air defenses or of Russia’s intentions? I pay that bastard a lot of money to advise me — he had better get in here immediately!”

“He hasn’t been heard from in several hours, sir,” the chief of the general staff replied. “I’m trying every office—”

“President Gurizev…”

“Kharasho, Thorn!” Gurizev said. “All right, I agree. I want your help. I don’t know what the Russians want here. You have my permission to send in any forces you desire to protect myself and my staff. Just get us the hell out of here!”

“A few questions first,” Thorn said. “Who ordered the attack on the Taliban forces outside Mary?”

“I did.”

“And the commando insertion?”

“I received an execution order from President Sen’kov about nine hours before they were ambushed.”

“Who ordered the attack on the deputy secretary of state’s plane?” Thorn asked.

“I don’t know,” Gurizev said. “When the commandos were ambushed by the Taliban, Gryzlov issued a warning order to seal off our airspace and send in bombers to blast hell out of them.”

“Did Sen’kov sign the execution order for the blockade and the air raid?”

“If he did, I never saw it,” Gurizev said. “If he had, I certainly would have rescinded the authorization for the diplomatic visit.”

“Why didn’t you rescind the authorization after the Taliban’s attack on Mary or when Sen’kov authorized commandos to be inserted near Mary?”

“Sen’kov wanted you to see what the Taliban had done,” Gurizev said. “He wanted to prove they were the instigators, not us!”

“But then why seal off the airspace after the diplomatic flight left Bahrain?”

“I didn’t know anything about the Taliban ambush outside Mary, about the air raid, or anything about the blockade, except for the warning order,” Gurizev replied. “I asked for clarification of the order, but I haven’t spoken to anyone in Moscow in days — and I haven’t seen my Russian liaison officer either, the one who is supposed to keep me apprised of such actions!”

“You did not receive the execution order?”

“After the Taliban ambushed those commandos, I received no more communications from Moscow. Sreka! All I wanted was for the Russians to stop those Taliban insurgents.”

“You’d better make your way out of there, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “Take a cellular phone with you and dial this number now.” Thorn gave him a coded number unlike any regular phone number.

Gurizev dialed it. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“You don’t have to do anything. In a few moments we’ll pick up the digital signal from your phone by satellite, and we’ll be able to locate and track you as long as you’re in range of a cell site,” Thorn said. “We’ll send in rescue forces as quickly as we can. Now, get out of there!”

Gurizev simply dropped the corded phone, pocketed his cellular phone, and shouted, “Did you get in contact with anyone yet? Can anyone tell us where the Russians are?”

“Something’s wrong… now I can’t get through to the defense-operations center,” the chief of the general staff replied. “The line is completely blank.” He waved the air force general to wait on the phone for him, then said to Gurizev, “Sir, I recommend you evacuate the capital. Your car should take you out of the city immediately. Once we’re safe, we can decide where to go.”

“Then let’s get out of here!” Gurizev shouted. “Have my armored car waiting in the secure parking facility immediately!” He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, with his staffers and military advisers close behind.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a dozen Russian soldiers with assault rifles drawn burst into the president’s office and roughly shoved everyone back into the room. Cowering against a wall, they were ordered to place their hands on their heads.

“What is this?” Gurizev shouted, hoping that his voice would soon stop shaking. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Colonel General Boris Kasimov, the Russian liaison to the Turkmen general staff, walked in, holding an AK-74 compact assault rifle in his hands.