Rogue Forces

Colonel,” he said, “and your unit is brave and has sacrificed much for my people and my country. But your president is abandoning Iraq.”

“That’s not true, Colonel,” Wilhelm said.

“I am told by Vice President Phoenix that he was ordered to go to Baghdad and speak with my government about the Turkish invasion,” Jaffar said, “including establishing a security buffer zone in Iraq. Gardner not only condones this invasion, but he is willing to give up Iraqi land to placate the Turks. That is not acceptable. I look at you and your forces here on my base, and I see only hardship for my people.”

He stepped over to Patrick and looked at the Tin Man and CID unit there on the ramp. “But I look at General McLanahan and his weapons, and I see hope. He is willing to fight. It may be for money, but at least he is willing to lead his men into battle in Iraq.”

The expression on Wilhelm’s face was changing from anger to surprise to outright confusion. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” he said. “I have an entire brigade here…and I’m supposed to do nothing, in the middle of a Turkish invasion? I’m supposed to sit back and watch while you fly missions and send out these…these Tinker Toys? Baghdad is going to fight the Turks? Five years ago you didn’t have an organized army! Two years ago your unit didn’t even exist.”

“Excuse me, Colonel, but I don’t think you’re helping yourself here,” Vice President Phoenix said. He walked over to the Army colonel. “Let’s go to your command center, let me inform Washington about what’s going on, and ask for guidance.”

“You’re not buying into this nonsense, are you, sir?”

“I don’t see we have much choice right now, Colonel,” Phoenix said. He put a hand on Wilhelm’s shoulders and led him back to his Humvee. “Kind of like watching your daughter go off to college, isn’t it? They’re ready for their new life, but you’re not ready to see them off.”

“So, General McLanahan,” Yusuf Jaffar said after Wilhelm and his men departed, “as you Americans say, the ball is now in your court. You know Baghdad’s desires. What will you do now?”

“I think it’s time to test the Turks’ real intentions,” Patrick said. “Everyone has been very cooperative so far, and that’s good, but they’re still in your country with a lot of troops and aircraft. Let’s see what they do when you start insisting.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace.

—AMELIA EARHART

ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, IRAQ

THE NEXT MORNING

“Movement at the front gate, sir!” the Turkish captain of the troops surrounding Nahla Air Base heard on his portable radio. “Combat vehicles lining up to exit!”

“Bombok!” the captain swore. “What’s going on?” He threw his coffee out the window and exited his armored personnel carrier. A Humvee flying an American flag and pulling a trailer was entering the entrapment area, with another Humvee-trailer combo outside waiting its turn. The weapon cupolas on each vehicle had machine guns and grenade launchers mounted, but they still had canvas covers on them, they were locked in road-march position, and the gunner’s stations were not manned.

“Where do they think they are going?” the Turkish infantry captain asked.

“Should we stop them?” his first sergeant asked.

“We have no orders to interfere with them unless they attack us,” the captain said. “Otherwise we observe and report only.”

The Turks watched as the first Humvee exited, then pulled out away from the front gate and stopped to wait for the second. The Turkish captain stepped over to the front passenger side of the lead vehicle. “Good morning, sir,” he said. He saw it was a civilian. He knew the Americans employed a lot of civilians to work at their military bases, but to see one out here was rather bizarre.

“Good morning…er, I mean, gunaydin,” the man said in clumsy but understandable Turkish. “How’s it going?”

“Very well, sir,” the captain said in a low voice. The American just smiled and nodded. The Turk used the opportunity to peek inside the Humvee. There were two civilians in the rear seats and a lot of supplies under green tarps in the very back. One civilian passenger looked military, and he wore a strange outfit, like a scuba diver’s wet suit, covered by a jacket. He looked straight ahead and did not return the Turk’s gaze. The twenty-foot flatbed trailer was empty.

The American stuck out his right hand. “Jon Masters.”

The Turkish captain frowned, but took his hand and shook it. “Captain Evren.”

“Nice to met you,” Jon said. He looked around. “You guys doing okay out here? Anything we can get you?”

“No, efendim,” Evren said. He was waiting for some kind of explanation, but apparently this man was not interested in offering anything but chitchat. “May I ask where you are going, sir?”

“Just driving around.”

Evren looked at the gaggle of Humvees, then back at Jon with a stern expression. “At this hour, and with trailers?”

“Why not? I’ve been here in Iraq for a couple weeks and I haven’t seen anything of the countryside. Thought I’d better do it while the doin’ is good.”

Evren didn’t understand half of what the guy just said, and he was getting tired of his goofy smile. “May I ask please where you are going, sir, and what you intend to do with the trailers?” he repeated, much more forcefully.

“Just around.” Jon drew a circle with his finger. “Around. Around here.”

Evren was getting angry with the guy, but he had no authority to detain him. “Please be mindful of other military vehicles, sir,” he said. “Some of our larger vehicles have limited visibility for the driver. An encounter with a main battle tank would be unfortunate for you.”

The veiled threat didn’t seem to have any effect on the American. “I’ll tell the others,” he said idly. “Thanks for the tip. Bye-bye now.” And the convoy headed off.

“What should we do, sir?” the first sergeant asked.

“Have the checkpoints report their position to me as they pass,” Evren said, “then get someone to follow them.” The first sergeant hurried off.

The convoy of Humvees drove around to the north side of the base on public highways. They passed a Turkish army checkpoint at one intersection, where they were stopped so soldiers could look inside the vehicles, but not detained or searched. They continued north for a couple more miles, then exited the highway and drove farther north through a muddy open field. Ahead they saw stakes pounded in the ground with yellow “Caution” and “Keep Out” tape strung between them, and a few hundred yards beyond that was the wreckage of Scion Aviation International’s XC-57 Loser. The Turkish missiles apparently hadn’t hit the plane directly, but proximity fuses exploded the warheads near the pod-mounted engines atop the fuselage, shearing two of them off and sending the plane hurtling to the ground. It had landed on its left front side, crumpling most of the left wing and left side of the nose, and there had been a fire, but the rest of the plane sustained what might be called moderate damage; most of the right side of the plane was relatively intact.

There was a lone Russian IMR engineer vehicle parked at the tape border, with two Turkish soldiers on guard duty with it. The IMR had a crane mounted on the back and a blade in front resembling a bulldozer. The soldiers discarded cigarettes and coffee and got on portable radios as they saw the convoy approach. “Hayir, hayir!” one of them shouted, waving his hands. “Durun! Gidin!”

Jon Masters got out of the Humvee and trudged through the mud toward the soldiers. “Good morning! Gunaydin!” he shouted. “How’s it going? Any of you guys speak English?”