Rogue Forces

Where…?”

“The target was Diyarbakir, the main air base Turkey was using to launch air strikes into Iraq,” Turner said. “Six B-1B Lancer bombers launched from the United Arab Emirates—”

“On whose authority?” the president thundered. “Who gave them the order?”

“We’re not sure, sir…”

“Not sure? Six supersonic heavy bombers loaded with bombs takes off from a base in the Middle East and bombs an air base in Turkey, and no one knows who authorized it? Who was the commander?”

“Her name is Cazzotto.”

“Her? A woman bomber-wing commander?”

“It apparently is an engineering squadron, sir,” Turner said. “They take planes out of mothballs and make them operational again. They were tasked with providing air support for operations in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

“And they just blasted off and bombed Turkey? How is this even possible? Who ordered them to do it?”

“Colonel Cazzotto refuses to talk, except to say that the person that expedited the mission will make contact,” Turner said.

“This is unacceptable, Miller,” the president said. “Find that person and throw him in prison! This is insanity! I’m not going to allow six B-1 bombers to fly around anytime someone feels like taking out some buildings.” He accepted a note from Kordus, read it, then crumpled it up and threw it on his desk. “So what did they hit?”

“They destroyed two Patriot radar sites on their way in,” Turner said, “then they hit a variety of military targets at Diyarbakir, including parked and taxiing aircraft, hangars, fuel depots, and command and control centers. Very effective target selection. They used Joint Air to Surface Strike Missiles, which are high-precision subsonic conventionally armed cruise missiles. All the planes came back safely.”

“And put in the stockade, I hope!”

“Yes, sir. It appears that the Turks were gearing up for a major air raid into Iraq. They had over a hundred tactical planes ready for takeoff at Diyarbakir. Looks like they were trying to get some licks in before we set up the no-fly zone in northern Iraq.”

This somewhat mollified the president’s rage, but he shook his head. “I want some answers, Miller, and I want some butts!” he shouted. Kordus answered the flashing phone, looked at the president until he looked back, then nodded toward the door to the president’s private office, adjacent to the Oval Office. “Christ, just what I need when the shit starts flying—a VIP visitor.”

“Who is it?” Carlyle asked.

“President Kevin Martindale.”

“Martindale? What does he want?”

“Beats me, but he’s been waiting for an hour,” Gardner said. “I’ll get rid of him. Get me some answers, Miller!” He entered his private study and closed the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” he said. “Something urgent came up.”

“That happens a lot in this business, Mr. President,” Kevin Martindale said, standing and shaking hands with his former secretary of defense. “I’m sorry for the unexpected visit, but there’s something I had to run past you.”

“Can it wait for lunch, Kevin?” Gardner asked. “You know, the whole Turkey thing is threatening to come off the hinges—”

“It has to do with Turkey,” Martindale said.

“Oh? What about it?”

“The air strike on Diyarbakir last night.”

Gardner’s eyes bulged in shock. “The air strike…Jesus, Kevin, I just found out about it two minutes ago! How do you know about it?”

“Because I helped plan it,” Martindale said. Gardner’s eyes bulged even farther. “I convinced the base commander at Minhad Air Base in the United Arab Emirates, General Omeir, to let the bombers go. He owed me.” Gardner was absolutely dumbstruck. “Listen, Joe, you have to promise me not to pursue this thing,” Martindale went on. “Don’t investigate Cazzotto, Omeir, or anyone else.”

“Don’t investigate? A six-pack of American supersonic bombers attacked an air base in Turkey, and I’m not supposed to investigate?”

“It would be better if you didn’t, Joe,” Martindale said. “Besides, the air strike probably stopped a war between us and Turkey. From what I was told, we took out a fourth of Turkey’s tactical air force on that single raid. They were getting ready to hit Iraq again, probably destroy most of Irbil and Kirkuk.”

“Kevin…how in the hell do you know all this stuff?” Gardner asked. “What have you been up to?”

Martindale looked at Gardner for a moment, then smiled and said quietly, “I am Scion Aviation International, Joe. Heard of them?”

The eye-bulging incredulous expression was back. “Scion Aviation? Scion…you mean, McLanahan’s outfit?”

“My outfit, Joe.”

“You…you have the robots…the Tin Man…?”

“Fewer than we had before, thanks to Hirsiz and Cizek,” Martindale said, “but we still have the rest.” He looked at Gardner and remained silent until the president looked at him in return. “I know what you’re thinking, Joe: you grab McLanahan in Iraq and force him to reveal where the other robots are, then rendition him to Uzbekistan for the rest of his life. Don’t do it.”

“Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Gardner said. “That’s exactly what he deserves!”

“Joe, you need to do what I did: stop fighting the guy and learn to work with him,” Martindale said. “The man went out there, planned an air strike against one of the most powerful countries in that region of the world, brought together the aircraft, weapons, and satellite support he needed, and succeeded. Isn’t that the guy you want working for you?”

“The guy sent two of those Tin Men after me, at Camp David, and one of them had me by the neck…!”

“And I know why, Joe,” Martindale said. “I have all the evidence, stored away, just in case. Now it’s not just McLanahan you need to eliminate: now it’s me and a small group of attorneys who know where all the copies of all that evidence are hidden.” He put a hand on Gardner’s arm. “But I’m not here to threaten you, Joe,” he went on. “I’m telling you, McLanahan doesn’t want to fight you, he wants to fight for you, for America. He’s got the gift, man. He sees a problem and moves heaven and earth to fix it. Why wouldn’t you want him on your side?”

He patted Gardner on the shoulder, then retrieved his coat. “Think about it, Joe, okay?” he said as he prepared to depart. “And lay off the investigation, or paper over it, or classify it, do whatever. If it gets the Turks to back down, it’s all good. You can even take credit. I’ll be looking in on you, Mr. President.”

THE PALM JUMEIRAH, DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

From the rooftop restaurant of the spectacular new Trump International Hotel and Tower in Dubai, Patrick McLanahan and Gia Cazzotto could see a lot of the incredible trunk, crown, fronds, and breakwater of the Palm Jumeirah, one of the three Palm Islands, artificial islands and reefs that form one of the most unusual and one-of- a-kind residential and recreational developments in the world. In the shape of a huge palm frond, it adds more than three hundred miles to the Persian Gulf coastline of the United Arab Emirates.

Gia raised her champagne glass to Patrick, and he touched his glass to hers. “So tell me, General,” she asked, “how did you get a hotel for you, me, and your entire crew at the most exclusive and impossible-to-book hotel in the world?”

“A very appreciative boss,” Patrick said.

“Ooh, very mysterious. Who is he? Or can’t you say? Is he like a Charles Townsend character, rich and powerful but prefers to stay hidden in the shadows?”

“Something like that.”

They stood and admired the view for a few moments; then she said, “When do you head back to the