Rogue Forces

compared them with a list downloaded from the Scion Aviation International team at Nahla, selected one, then spoke: “Colonel Wilhelm, this is Wayne Macomber. Do you read me?”

“Who is this?” Wilhelm replied a moment later.

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Macomber asked. “Just listen. My men and I are off-loading our equipment on the ramp and getting ready to fly. I don’t want to see any of your men anywhere in sight, or we’re going to tear you a new one. Do you copy me?”

“What in hell did you say?” Wilhelm thundered. “Who is this? How did you get on this frequency?”

“Colonel, this is Charlie Turlock,” Charlie interjected on the same frequency. “Pardon Mr. Macomber’s language, but he’s had a long day. What he meant to say is we’re out here on the ramp beginning our new contract operations, and we’d appreciate it if your men wouldn’t come around here. Would that be okay?” There was no response. “Good going, Whack,” Charlie radioed. “Now he’s pissed, and he’s going to bring the entire regiment.”

“Not if he’s smart,” Wayne said. But he knew that’s exactly what he’d do. “You and Jose, get backpacks on and stand by. Terry, let’s put the rail guns together and get ready to rumble.”

Charlie hurried off to the hangar where the weapon backpacks had been segregated, followed shortly by the other CID unit, and they selected and attached large backpacklike units on each other’s back. The backpacks contained forty-millimeter grenade launchers, each with twin movable barrels that could fire rounds in almost any direction no matter which way they were turned and could fire a variety of munitions, including high explosive, antiarmor, and antipersonnel. Whack and another Tin Man located and assembled their weapons—massive electromagnetic rail runs, each of which electrically fired a thirty-millimeter depleted uranium shell thousands of feet per second faster than a bullet.

It didn’t take long for Wilhelm to arrive in a Humvee. He screeched to a halt just inside the parking ramp area far enough in to get a good look at the scene. As he studied the area in stunned disbelief, three soldiers with M-16s raced out of the Humvee, one hiding behind the Humvee and the other two fanning out and taking cover behind nearby buildings.

“Warhammer, this is Alpha, those Scion guys are not in custody,” Wilhelm radioed from the Humvee. “They are off-loading their aircraft. Security is not in sight. They’ve deployed unidentified robot-looking units with weapons visible. Get First Battalion out here on the double. I want—”

“Hold on, Colonel, hold on,” Macomber cut in on the command frequency. “We don’t want a fight with you. Calling out the troops and starting a gunfight will just get the Turks outside riled up.”

“Warhammer switching to Delta.”

But on the secondary channel, Macomber went on: “You can flip channels all day long, Colonel, but we’ll still find it. Listen, Colonel, we won’t bother you, so don’t bother us, okay?”

“Sir, vehicle approaching, five o’clock!” one of the soldiers yelled. A Humvee was driving up to Macomber’s position.

“Don’t shoot, Colonel, that’s probably McLanahan,” Macomber radioed.

“Shut the hell up, whoever you are,” Wilhelm radioed, drawing a .45 caliber pistol from his holster.

The newcomer came to a stop, and Patrick McLanahan stepped out, with his hands raised. “Easy, Colonel, we’re all on the same side here,” he said.

“Like hell,” Wilhelm shouted. “Sergeant, take McLanahan into custody and put him in the Triple-C under guard.”

“Look out!” one of the soldiers shouted. Wilhelm just caught a blur of motion out of the corner of an eye—and as if by magic, the gray-suited figure who had been near the hangar appeared out of the sky right beside the soldier closest to McLanahan. In an instant he snatched the M-16 rifle out of the soldier’s startled hands, bent it in half, and handed it back to him.

“Now cut the shit, all of you,” Macomber shouted, “or I break the next M-16 over someone’s head.”

The other armed soldiers raised their weapons and aimed them at Macomber, but Wilhelm raised his hands and shouted, “Weapons tight, weapons tight, put ’em down.” It wasn’t until then that he noticed that one of the large robots had appeared right beside him, covering the twenty or thirty yards between them with incredible speed and stealth. “Jeez…!” he breathed, startled.

“Hi, Colonel,” Charlie said in her electronically synthesized voice. “Good call. Let’s have a chat, okay?”

“McLanahan!” Wilhelm cried. “What in hell is going on here?”

“Change in mission, Colonel,” Patrick replied.

“What mission? Whose mission? Your mission is over. Your contract’s been canceled. You’re under my jurisdiction until someone takes your ass back to Washington.”

“I’ve got a new contract, Colonel, and we’re going to get it set up and running right now.”

“New contract? With whom?”

“With me, Colonel,” a voice said, and to Wilhelm’s surprise, Iraqi colonel Yusuf Jaffar emerged from the back of Patrick’s Humvee, followed by Vice President Ken Phoenix and two Secret Service agents.

“Jaffar…I mean, Colonel Jaffar…what is this about? What’s going on?”

“General McLanahan’s company has been hired by the government of the Republic of Iraq to provide…shall we say, specialized services,” Jaffar said. “They shall be based here, at Nahla, under my supervision.”

“But this is my base…!”

“You are wrong, sir. This is an Iraqi air base, not an American one,” Jaffar said. “You are guests here, not landlords.”

“McLanahan can’t work for you! He’s an American.”

“Scion Aviation International has State Department approval to operate in three dozen countries worldwide, including Iraq,” Patrick said. “The original contract was a joint cooperation agreement with both U.S. Central Command and the Republic of Iraq—I just reported to you. Now I report to Colonel Jaffar.”

“But you’re under arrest, McLanahan,” Wilhelm argued. “You’re still in my custody.”

“As long as the general is in my country and on my base, he is subject to my laws, not yours,” Jaffar said. “You may deal with him as you wish when he leaves, but now he is mine.”

Wilhelm opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it again in blank confusion. “This is insane,” he said finally. “What do you think you’re going to do, McLanahan?”

“Baghdad wants help inducing the Turks to leave Iraq,” Patrick said. “They think the Turks will start tearing up the country trying to eradicate the PKK, and then create a buffer zone along the border to make it harder for the PKK to come back.”

“All that’s going to accomplish is angering the Turks and widening the conflict,” Wilhelm said. “You’re crazy if you think President Gardner’s going to let you do this.”

“President Gardner is not my president, and he is not Iraq,” Jaffar said. “President Rashid does this thing because the Americans will not help us.”

“Help you? Help you do what, Colonel?” Wilhelm asked, almost pleading. “You want us to go to war with Turkey? You know how these Turkish incursions work, Colonel. They come in, they attack some isolated camps and hideouts, and they go home. They drove a little deeper this time. So what? They’re not interested in taking any land.”

“And General McLanahan will be here to make sure it does not happen,” Jaffar said. “America will not interfere with this.”

“You’re going to replace my regiment with McLanahan and his robot planes and robot…whatever these things are?” Wilhelm asked. “His little company up against at least four Turkish infantry divisions?”

“It is said that Americans have little faith—they believe only what is in front of their noses,” Jaffar said. “I have seen it is true for you, Colonel Wilhelm. But I look at General McLanahan’s amazing aircraft and weapons, and all I see are possibilities. Perhaps as you say the Turks will not take our land or slaughter any innocent Iraqis, and we will not need the general’s weapons. But this is the largest force ever to enter Iraq, and I fear they will not stop at breaking apart a few camps.”

Jaffar stepped over to Wilhem and stood right in front of him. “You are a fine soldier and commander,