was stark outside: tall soaring ceilings capped with a beautiful mosaic tile dome, polished marble columns, shining marble floors inlaid with gold and silver, and long rows of oak bookshelves surrounded by tables, chairs, rugs, and computer workstations. A magnificent thick topaz carpet outside of an ornately decorated archway signified the entrance to the Khomeini mosque.
There was no one in the library at this hour. Just as Buzhazi started to worry about how to find the mullah in charge of the place, his wish was granted the moment he set foot on the topaz carpet without removing his boots: a man in a white turban and long flowing white and gray robes came running out of nowhere, waving his hands, followed by several assistants. “You! You! I have told you a hundred times, you may not enter the shrine of the faqih without permission from the imam! Now go!”
Buzhazi stood his ground. “I wish to speak with the imam immediately, priest,” he said.
“Have you gone mad? Morning prayers are not for another two hours — the imam receives no one until after prayers unless it’s an emergency, and normally not until after breakfast and morning rituals.” The mullah looked at Buzhazi. “I do not recognize you, soldier. Remove your helmet in this holy place and identify yourself.”
“I have information that you have important visitors here from Tehran with you, priest,” Buzhazi said, keeping the helmet in place. “I want to speak with the imam, immediately.”
“You will remove yourself from this place immediately!” the mullah shouted. “I shall see to it that you are relieved of duty and flogged for this act of gross disrespect!”
Buzhazi turned to one of the young men that had followed the mullah. “Does this man know where the imam is?”
“We all serve the imam of this library. But he will do nothing except…” He didn’t finish his sentence…because Buzhazi had withdrawn his pistol from its holster and shot one round through the mullah’s forehead. In a flash Sattari had his pistol out as well, covering the other acolytes.
Buzhazi kept the smoking pistol in his hand but did not point it at anyone. He turned to the young man he had just referred to: “Okay, son, now I’ll ask you the same question: do you have some special guests from Tehran here, and will you take me to them?”
The young man hesitated, then nearly fainted from fear as he saw Buzhazi roll his eyes impatiently and begin to raise his pistol. “Yes! Yes! We have guests staying here! Important men from Tehran, members of the Leadership Council, the Assembly of Experts, the Council of Guardians, and the Majlis.”
“And?”
“And…” He looked at the dead body of the mullah lying on the once-immaculate marble floor, his face ashen, and nodded. “Y-yes, I will take you.”
“Good boy.” Buzhazi motioned to Sattari, who radioed for more units to follow them inside and secure the library. “Describe where we’re going first, then take us.”
“So what about your spaceplanes, Patrick?” President Kevin Martindale asked. “Where do we stand?”
“The second Black Stallion spaceplane is ready for operational flight testing, and the third will be ready in six months, sir,” Patrick replied. “The contractors are already tooled up for spare parts production and spiral upgrade development. They can be ready to restart full-scale production within two months of initial funding: we could have two more spacecraft ready within twelve months; the tankers can be ready in six months. Fuel and oxidizer are commercially produced worldwide, readily available, easily shipped and stored, and require no special training to handle — no need to expose the program by procuring or storing large amounts of cryogenic materials. The aircraft and tankers are easily concealed and deployed, need no special security or storage, and blend in with the tactical military inventories of any air base in the world.”
“So you can build another Air Battle Force made up of spaceplanes and park them out in Dreamland — with you in command?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked. “Got this all figured out, eh, McLanahan?” To the President he added, “The committees will see right through that, sir. Barbeau will get what she wants; then, at the first inkling of trouble from Dreamland — and I can guarantee there will be trouble — she’ll spearhead the charge to cut off funding and pillory you as the grand architect of the failed spaceplane scheme.” He glanced at McLanahan and said plainly, “With all due respect, sir, McLanahan is damaged goods.”
“He might be right, Patrick,” the President said. His attention was redirected at his chief of staff’s surprised expression. “Carl? What’s going on?”
“A call from Secretary of State Carson, sir,” Minden replied, releasing the dead-man’s silencer button on the handset, his eyes darting over in McLanahan’s direction. “There’s an Iranian general by the name of Buzhazi…that asked to talk with McLanahan. He says it’s urgent.”
“Buzhazi? Hesarak Buzhazi?” McLanahan exclaimed. “The ex-chief of staff of the Iranian armed forces?”
“What in hell’s going on, Carl?” the President asked.
“The State Department verifies that the call is coming from a secure official government telecommunications facility from Qom, Iran, relayed via satellite phone through the Swiss embassy in Washington,” Minden said. “But we have no way of verifying if it’s really Buzhazi.”
“I thought Buzhazi was dead,” Vice President Hershel said. “Wasn’t he executed by the Ayatollah or the Iranian Revolutionary Guards after the attacks in the Straits of Hormuz? Can you bring us up to speed, Patrick?”
“Yes, ma’am. Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi was the chief of staff of the Iranian military and head of their Revolutionary Guards Corps, the Pasdaran, several years ago. He tried to close off the Strait of Hormuz between the Persian Gulf and Gulf of Oman by ringing the shipping lanes with anti-ship missiles, with bombers carrying supersonic anti-ship missiles, and even using an ex-Russian aircraft carrier. We slapped him down pretty hard, and he was removed from his post — permanently, I thought. We had no hard evidence that Buzhazi had been executed; we thought he was driven deep underground or escaped Iran to a neighboring Arab country. We were surprised when he turned up as the commander of the Basij, their volunteer federal paramilitary force. Command of the Pasdaran was turned over to a deputy.”
“Why is he calling you, McLanahan?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked.
“I have no idea, sir.” Sparks scowled, not sure if he should believe him and deciding to check that out for himself.
“I remembered talking to the cocky bastard,” the President said acidly. “He can lie and deceive with the best of them. If he thinks he speaks for the Iranian government, he’s up to something. I want to find out what.” He turned to Patrick. “Talk to him, Patrick, but don’t give him anything until we get a chance to check out whatever he says.”
Jonas Sparks didn’t like junior staffers like McLanahan taking over his responsibility, and he decided to move quickly before this got completely out of control. “Mr. Minden, route the call to my office and I can take it in there.”
“No, take it here,” the President said. Minden shook his head in surprise: the President never allowed any business other than his own done in the Oval Office — the place always seemed a madhouse, but the chaos always centered on him. “Patrick, talk to him. I’d like to hear what that bastard has to say.”
The chief of staff looked warily at Sparks, worried that the President’s most senior advisers were being displaced by McLanahan, but right now powerless to do anything. He hit a second line button: “Signal, this is the chief of staff, verify that the voice translators are functioning and sending the real-time transcripts to the Oval Office…very well.” He went over to a hidden credenza beside the President’s desk, withdrew a tablet computer, logged in, inspected a script streaming on it, then hit the speakerphone button and motioned to McLanahan with a reluctant nod.
“This is General McLanahan in Washington,” Patrick said. “To whom am I speaking?”
In a thick Middle East accent but in very well-spoken English a young man replied, “Good evening, sir. My name is Kamran Ardakani, and I am a student of theology and government at the Faqih Sayyed Ruhollah Khomeini Library of Jurisconsult in Qom, in the Islamic Republic of Iran. I am translating on behalf of General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, the officer in charge of the military force here.”
“How do I know you are translating for Buzhazi?”
There was a rather long pause; then: “The general tells me to tell you that he knows that your black friend Briggs sent the assassin to kill him and that she begged for mercy like a diseased whore before he executed her… may Allah have mercy on her soul.”
