soldiers ran out of the building and took up defensive positions around the vehicles, scanning the streets and surrounding buildings for any sign of trouble. Moments later a door on the armored vehicle swung open, followed by the doors to the building, and three persons in handcuffs and leg restraints were led from the building into the armored vehicles. As soon as they were inside, the guards were recalled and the armored vehicle and their escorts sped away.
Unseen by anyone who might be watching the operation — unlikely, since the police enforced a strict dawn- to-dusk curfew in the capital district of the city, punishable by caning — was a second armored vehicle that had slipped in to a fenced official parking lot in the rear of the building. A single guard opened the barbed-wire-topped gate and let the armored car through. The vehicle drove to a dark rear corner of the lot and parked near several other similar vehicles, and moments later the driver alighted and walked away, exiting the lot without turning back. Except for the occasional squawk of a peacock — used in Turkmenistan like a watchdog — the place quickly fell silent once again.
Several minutes later a sedan was admitted through the gate, and it parked a few yards away from the armored vehicle. Two security guards, with AKS-74 assault rifles at the ready, emerged from the sedan and took up guard positions. Moments later, a man in a long coat emerged, went around to the other side of the sedan, and opened the door for Turkmeni president Jalaluddin Turabi.
“Everything is clear, sir,” the chief of Turabi’s security detail said. “No sign of them.”
Turabi looked into the darkness outside the floodlit walls and chuckled. “They’re here, don’t worry,” he said. “They’ve probably been here for a while.” He walked over to the armored vehicle and rapped on the side door, and a guard inside opened it up. “How are you tonight, Princess?”
Azar Assiyeh Qagev leaned forward in her seat, squinting in the darkness. “Very well, thank you,” she said in passable Turkmeni, her tone of voice suspicious yet pleasant. “I presume I have the honor of addressing President Jalaluddin Turabi?”
“My staff informed me that you are observant and smart — I see they were not exaggerating,” Turabi said after shaking off his surprise.
“Do you intend on turning me over to the Iranian government without benefit of legal process?” Azar asked.
“As far as Turkmenistan is concerned, you are a citizen of the United States and Turkey, and you have broken no laws in Turkmenistan,” Turabi said. “If Iran has charged you with serious crimes, according to treaty you must be taken before a judge who will hear their arguments. But we have reason to believe your life is in danger, so you will be taken someplace safe until your extradition hearing.”
“I am forever in your debt, Mr. President,” Azar said.
“Why are you in Turkmenistan, Princess?” Turabi asked. “Certainly not to upgrade our cellular phone system.”
“I hope I don’t appear ungrateful, sir,” Azar said, “but I don’t wish to discuss this without benefit of legal counsel. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Turabi said, checking his watch. “I was hoping there was some other way I could help, that’s all.”
“Things look quiet out here, One,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl radioed via the Tin Man battle armor’s built-in satellite transceiver. Wohl was hidden at the rendezvous point suggested by Jalaluddin Turabi, observing the area for any signs of danger. “Turabi just showed up. You copy, Genesis?”
“Roger that,” Dave Luger radioed from the Dreamland Battle Management area. “Sorry, but it looks like the drone you launched isn’t sending any video, just stills every few minutes. You copy us, Stud Five?”
“Roger,” Hunter Noble responded. He was patrolling the southern section of their landing spot outside of the capital, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. “We lost the video too, so we’re all out patrolling the area.” He looked over to where his copilot and mission commander, Captain Wil Lefferts, was nervously pacing, another H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Six’s about ready to have a cow, I think.”
“What’s wrong, Five?”
“Nothing — it’s just quiet as hell out here,” Boomer replied. “Wil — er, I mean, Six — jumps at every little sound.” He peered out through the darkness. His eyes were finally getting night-adapted, and he could see more and more details of their surroundings. “This is a great landing site, guys — a road plenty long for us to land on, lots of cover, far from any major highways, and open space for Stud Four to run around.” Boomer had landed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane outside a large truck parking area several miles outside the capital city of Ashkhabad. The facility appeared to be abandoned — it was easy to find from the air, easy to approach, and easy to touch down. There was a long, wide access road to the west of the complex, and that’s where Boomer landed the XR-A9.
“Just keep your eyes open, guys,” Dave said. He didn’t voice his main concerns again — the fact that Jalaluddin Turabi had recommended this spot for an insertion — because Dave had already expressed his doubts several times already. He had insisted on, and Patrick had approved, several methods to ensure that their crews weren’t walking into a trap:
The powerful sensors on Armstrong Space Station had swept the area twice in three hours prior to landing and cleared the Black Stallion to land, which made everyone feel better. There was a constellation of small NIRTSats supporting surveillance operations over Iran, and one of those satellites passed over the area every few hours to update the strategic picture of the target area.
In addition, the second XR-A9 spaceplane, launched shortly after Boomer’s, had released a Meteor payload re-entry module which seeded four surveillance drones over the area and beamed streaming video images to the Air Battle Force commandos on the ground and back to Dreamland. The drones were positioned over the landing zone and three other key places in the area: central Ashkhabad, including the government center, Hall of Justice, and the Russian embassy; the Turkmeni army barracks south of the city; and Ashkhabad-Berzien Military Airfield west of the city.
Unfortunately two of the drones malfunctioned — one crashed someplace in the desert shortly after release, and the second was still aloft but not sending any video. Dave had carefully considered requesting that they abort the mission because of the lack of timely intelligence data on the target and the area defenses. But he knew Patrick wanted this mission to happen. So after scanning the Turkmeni air base for any sign of movement that might suggest the ground team had been discovered, Dave ordered that drone moved to the Black Stallion landing site. The drone had to fly south around the city, well away from Niyazov International Airport, to avoid discovery, so it would not be on station for several minutes — meaning the Black Stallion and its crew were on their own until the drone arrived.
“Stud Four is shifting to the south — I thought I saw headlights,” Army Sergeant Maxwell Dolan in Tin Man battle armor and powered exoskeleton radioed. “Genesis, are you receiving my video?”
“Affirmative, Four,” Dave Luger responded. Video and sensor images received by any of the Tin Men in the Air Battle Force ground team were uplinked via satellite back to the Battle Management Area at Dreamland, where they could be shared by any other member in almost real-time. “We didn’t see the lights, but proceed”—then he added—“with caution.”
That kind of chatter made Boomer very nervous — and at that moment he found himself unconsciously flicking the mode selector on his MP-5 up and down. Shit, he thought, he forgot which way the switch went for the “SAFE” position, and he didn’t want to radio the others to remind him — again — which was correct. He designed high-performance jet and rocket engines, he admonished himself, but for some damned reason he could never remember if flipping the switch up was “SAFE,” or the other way around.
Boomer moved toward a small concrete pump building a few dozen yards away from the Black Stallion, crouched down on the far side of the building, pulled a small LED flashlight from a flight suit pocket, covered the bulb as much as he could with his hand to avoid spoiling his night vision and startling Wil Lefferts, then shined it on the left side of the little submachine gun. Oh shit, he swore to himself, he had switched it to the three-round burst mode. For safety reasons there was no full-automatic mode on these weapons, just a SAFE, semi-automatic, and three-round semi-automatic mode.
OK, OK, he yelled at himself, pushing the switch down is bad — flipping it up is good. Push down to get
