through the city — the vehicle was instantly recognized by the police on patrol, who did nothing more than salute the vehicle as it drove past. Ten minutes later, easily negotiating the nearly deserted streets of Ashkhabad, they came to the Niyazov Thirtieth Anniversary Racetrack on the eastern side of the capital, and made their way to the stables, where they met up with dozens of members of the Qagev monarchy’s underground support network.
“Any news of my parents?” Azar asked.
“None, Shahdokht,” the network leader replied. “Some reports said they were intercepted in Paris by the Pasdaran. We simply do not have any first-hand information.”
“We must proceed on our own, assemble the Court and the war council, organize the militia, and prepare to take action should the opportunity present itself,” Azar said. “But first we have a debt to repay.”
They found the truck farm about ten kilometers east of the racetrack. The entire area was deserted, but it did not take long for Azar and her entourage to notice the smell of burning jet fuel, metal…and human bodies. Their vehicles bumped across craters made by high-explosive detonations, and small fires were still burning everywhere. The underground fighters drew their weapons as they approached the worst of the battle-ravaged area. “No,” Azar ordered, sensing danger nearby. “Lower your weapons. The enemy has already left…or has been dispatched.” She got out of the sedan and approached the center of the devastated truck parking lot. “Master Sergeant? Are you here?”
“Yes,” an electronic voice replied. Chris Wohl emerged from his hiding spot atop a forty-foot trailer and lowered his electromagnetic rail gun. “You came after all.”
“I said I would,” Azar said softly. “I would not abandon you after you rescued us from the Iranians. I have two squads of fighters and transportation with me. What happened here?”
“Turabi told the Iranians where we’d land,” Chris said. “They waited until my advance team left the area, then attacked. They captured one of my commandos and several pieces of our aircraft. My man destroyed several of their vehicles and at least a platoon of Pasdaran, but he’s missing now. The aircraft crew is missing.”
“Shahdokht, inja, inja!” one of the monarchists cried out in a low voice. “Here! Here!” Chris Wohl moved in a flash. The Iranian partisan pulled bits of flaming wreckage and heavily burned and blackened bodies out of a shallow crater beside a concrete pump house, revealing two men lying together, smoke still curling from their bodies. “Baz-mandeh! Nafas-e rahat!”
“A survivor!” Azar said. She dashed over behind the tall figure in gray. It was a young man, holding another young man in a protective embrace. The second man’s body was riddled with bullet holes.
The tall armored commando removed his helmet, revealing a lean, craggy face filled with concern. “Captain! Can you hear me?” Chris asked.
The younger man opened his eyes, blinking away dirt and blood encrusting his vision. The man began to push Chris away in wide-eyed panic, and Azar knelt before him, scooped him up, and held him closely. “It’s okay, Captain, it’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe now.” She looked at Chris. “What’s his name?”
“Hunter,” he replied. “Everyone calls him ‘Boomer.’”
“Boomer. I like that name,” Azar said. She held him tighter until he stopped struggling, then started to probe for wounds. “It’s okay, Boomer. The master sergeant is here. We’re going to take you to safety.”
“Ch-Chris?” Boomer asked. His wits were quickly returning. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, sir. Can you tell us what happened?”
“They clobbered us before we could do anything,” Boomer said. “Just when you reported in position at the pickup point, they swooped in. Your guy Sergeant Max — sorry, I don’t know his full name — fought like a berserker, man. He was moving so fast, I thought there was three of him. He shot up most of the attacking vehicles, then started mowing down the ground forces, but…Jesus, there were too many of them.” He looked at his arms and saw the corpse he was still cradling. “Whoever they were, they blasted the Stud apart. I got Wil out in time, but they got him too.”
“Enough, Captain,” Chris said. “You’re safe now.”
“But I think they got the Stud — or whatever they didn’t blow apart…”
“Don’t worry about it, Boomer,” Azar said. “We’ll see to it that your comrade and yourself are safe.”
Boomer looked at the girl holding him. “The princess, I presume?” he asked. “At least your mission was successful, Master Sergeant. I like your accent, Princess. Wisconsin?”
“Minnesota,” Azar said. She motioned to the partisans, who took the dead crewmember from Boomer’s arms. “Can you walk, Boomer?”
“I think so.” He struggled to his feet, steadied himself for a moment, then nodded. “I’m okay.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” Azar said. “The Pasdaran will be after us.”
“Where are we going?”
“Iran,” Azar said. “We’ll make contact with our freedom fighters and the Court. Once we’re inside the network again, we’ll get you back to the United States right away.”
“The captain will go back,” Chris Wohl said. “My men and I are staying with you.”
“You don’t need to do that, Master Sergeant…”
“Those are my orders, ma’am,” Chris said. “Until I’m relieved or given further orders, I’m staying with you.”
“You would abandon your superior officer…?”
“He’s a pilot, ma’am,” Chris Wohl said flatly. “He may be a very good pilot, but he’s still just a pilot. My orders did not include baby-sitting the pilot…”
“Jeez, thanks, Master Sergeant,” Boomer moaned.
“…but to accompany you and your men to Iran, collect intelligence data, report back to my headquarters, and await further orders.”
“Your men are injured and captured, Master Sergeant,” Azar said, confused. “Why do you want to stay with me?”
“My commanding officer believes you’re the key to the future of Iran, Princess,” Chris said. “He does not support General Buzhazi’s military insurgency, and he wants more information on you and your monarchist movement. My mission is to give him the information he wants and to stand by with you in case he has further orders.”
“Who is your commanding officer?”
“I’d rather not give you that information, Princess,” Chris said. “He’s a powerful man, but no one else believes that either the military insurgency or an underground monarchy will survive the Pasdaran’s rampages. My mission is to give him the information he needs to convince my government to support you…or not.”
Azar smiled and nodded. “That’s fair, I think,” she said. “My mission is to get us to safety inside Iran, convene the Court and the council of war, assemble the army, and march on to Tehran. Hopefully we can make contact with General Buzhazi and find out what he has in mind. Perhaps our forces can work together…perhaps not. We shall find out together, won’t we?”
CHAPTER 7
“So, you got your wanker slammed in the drawer, eh, McLanahan?” Secretary of Defense Joseph Gardner said as he took his seat in the White House Situation Room. Patrick McLanahan was on a secure videoconference connection from the Battle Management Room at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base, Nevada. “I guess your Tin Men aren’t as tough as we all thought if a bunch of ragheads with RPGs can take them down.”
“Sergeant Dolan took on four squads of mechanized infantry and destroyed three of them before they finally got him, sir,” Patrick said. “He died saving two of our crewmen.”
“Of course, of course — no disrespect to the sergeant or to the copilot that perished,” Gardner said quickly. “What I was trying to say, McLanahan, is that you should have known that your Tin Men aren’t supermen. You should have realized that leaving just one to guard a three-billion-dollar jet wasn’t going to hack it, and you should have called on more special ops forces to assist.”
