Rogue Forces

lasers, all the supersecret black boxes, the guy who designed and built them all, and the one who used them to shoot down one of their planes and kill one of their soldiers. Unless you like the taste of truth serum or enjoy having your fingernails pulled out with pliers, I think you’re safer inside the wire.” That made Jon Masters gulp, turn whiter than he looked before, and fall silent. “I thought not. I think we’re damned lucky they’re not demanding we turn you over to them right now. I’m sorry about your stuff, Doc, but you stay put.” He watched Jon turn away and couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

“I think you scared him, Colonel,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was standing with security director Kris Thompson beside Wilhelm’s console. “Do you really think the Turks would torture him?”

“How the hell do I know, General?” Wilhelm growled. “I just wanted him to stop harping on me until I get things sorted out and until someone in Washington or Ankara calls a stop to all this. But shooting down that Phantom is not going to sit well with the Turks.” He studied one of the data screens with updated air traffic information. “You still bringing in one of your planes tonight? Haven’t you lost enough planes already?”

“It’s not an XC-57, just a regular 767 freighter,” Patrick said. “It’s already been cleared and manifested by the Turks.”

“Why bother? You know your contract is going to get canceled, don’t you? Shooting down that Phantom—with a laser no less—is going to land you in hot water. You’ll be lucky if the Turks don’t intercept it and force it to land in Turkey.”

“Then I’ll still need a freighter to start taking my stuff out of the country now that they shot down the Loser.”

“It’s your decision, General,” Wilhelm said, shaking his head. “I think the Turks okayed the flight just so they can intercept it, force it to land in Turkey, seize whatever stuff you’re bringing into Iraq, and hold the cargo and your plane hostage until you pay reparations for the Phantom and probably stand trial for murder. But it’s your call.” Mark Weatherly stepped over to Wilhelm and handed him a note. He read it, shook his head wearily, then handed it back. “Bad news, General. I’ve been ordered to detain you in your quarters until you can be flown back to the States. Your contract has been canceled by the Pentagon, effective immediately.”

“The Phantom incident?”

“Doesn’t say, but I’m sure that’s why,” Wilhelm said. “From what we’ve seen, the Turks are being ultracareful not to attack us or the non-PKK Iraqis. That restraint may slip now that they’ve lost a jet and a pilot, and Washington needs to do something to show we don’t want to get into a shooting match with the Turks.”

“And I’m the guy.”

“High-profile retired bomber commander turned mercenary. Hate to say it, General, but you’re the poster child for retribution.”

“I’m sure President Gardner was all too happy to serve you up, too, Muck,” Jon Masters added.

“Sorry, General.” Wilhelm turned to Kris Thompson. “Thompson, mind taking the general to his CHU? I don’t even know if you’ve ever slept in it before—I’ve always found you out in the hangar or in your plane—but that’s where I’ve got to keep you for now.”

“Mind if I go with him, Colonel?” Jon asked.

Wilhelm waved a hand at him and turned back to his console, and the group left for the housing area.

The housing area—CHUville—seemed almost deserted. No one said anything as they walked down the rows of steel containers until they located the one reserved for Patrick. “I’ll have your stuff brought out here, sir,” Kris said. He opened the door, turned on a light, and inspected the room. There was an inner room to keep out blowing sand and dust. Inside was a small galley, desk and chair, guest chairs, closet, storage shelves, and a sofa bed. “We have plenty of room, so you have both CHUs and the wet-CHU in the middle to yourself. We set up the second CHU as a conference room for you and your guys; this side is your private space. You have full Internet access, telephone, TV, the works. If there’s anything else you need, or if you want a different CHU closer to the flight line, just call.”

“Thanks, Kris. This’ll be okay.”

“Again, Patrick, I’m sorry this is going down like this,” Kris said. “You were trying to get our comms and datalinks back, not kill the guy.”

“It’s the politics kicking in, Kris,” Patrick said. “The Turks feel totally justified in what they’re doing, and they don’t know or care why we’d fire on their plane. The White House doesn’t want this thing to blow out of control —”

“Not to mention the president would love to stick it to you, Muck,” Jon Masters added.

“Nothing we can do about it here,” Patrick said. “I’ll do my fighting once I get stateside. Don’t worry about me.”

Thompson nodded. “No one has said thank you for what you did, but I will. Thank you, sir,” he said, then departed.

“Great, just great,” Jon Masters said after Thompson had left the CHU. “The Turks are going to rummage through the Loser’s wreckage, and you’re stuck in here under house arrest with the president of the United States ready to serve you up to the Turks as a berserker warmonger. Swell. What do we do now?”

“I have no idea,” Patrick said. “I’ll get in touch with the boss and let him know what’s happening—if he doesn’t already know.”

“I’ll bet Pres—” Patrick suddenly raised his hand, which startled Jon. “What?” Jon asked. “Why did you…?” Patrick put a finger to his lips and pointed around the room. Jon knotted his eyebrows in confusion. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Patrick found a pencil and paper in the desk and wrote, I think the CHUs are bugged.

“What?” Jon exclaimed.

Patrick rolled his eyes again, then wrote, No mention of the pres. Casual talk only.

“Okay,” Jon said, not really sure if he believed it but willing to play along. He wrote, Off the bug?

Only video if they have it, Patrick replied in writing. Jon nodded. Patrick wrote, Tell Whack and Charlie on the freighter and the rest of the team in Las Vegas what happened to the Loser…and to me.

Jon nodded, gave Patrick a sorrowful expression, then said, “Okay, Muck, I’ll head back to the hangar, send the messages, check on the first Loser, and then turn in. This has been a really suck day. Buzz me if you need anything.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Jack Wilhelm punched the button on his console and slid off his headset after listening to the recording several minutes after Kris Thompson returned from CHUville. “I didn’t hear much of anything, Thompson,” he said.

“They started being very cautious about what they were saying, Colonel,” Kris Thompson replied. “I think they suspect they’re being bugged.”

“The guy’s smart, that’s for sure,” Wilhelm said. “Can we confiscate the paper they’re writing messages on before they destroy them?”

“Sure—if we want them to find out they’re being bugged.”

“Wish you had set up a video bug in there instead of just audio. All this high-tech gear around here and you couldn’t set up one simple baby-crib camera?” Thompson said nothing—he could’ve easily set up a video bug, but he was uncomfortable enough installing an audio bug in the general’s CHU; a video bug was too much. “He mentioned the ‘boss,’ and then Masters sounded like he was going to say ‘the president,’” Wilhelm commented. “President of what?”

“The company, I assume,” Thompson said. He paused, then added uncomfortably, “I don’t feel right bugging the general’s CHU, Colonel.”

“I got the order straight from the Army chief of staff, who got it through the attorney general and the secretary of defense—gather information on McLanahan’s activities, including eavesdropping and wiretaps, until the FBI and State Department take over,” Wilhelm said. “They’re gunning for this guy, that’s for sure. The president wants his head on a platter. They ordered his freighter searched and every piece of equipment on board cross- checked with the official manifest. If he’s bringing in any unauthorized stuff, they want to know about it. I don’t think the Turks will allow it to land here, but if it does, Washington wants it searched for unauthorized