Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (208 page)

“Calm myself? We are under attack—and it is because of
you
!” Mohtaz cried. “I allowed you to put your weapons on my soil because you said it would protect my country. It has done just the opposite! Four bombs have destroyed one of my Revolutionary Guards Corps bases, and now my air defense forces tell me that American bombers are flitting freely across our skies!”

“There are no bombers over Iran, Excellency—we have seen to that,” Zevitin said. “As far as your base: remember that Russia paid to refurbish and disguise that base so we could use it temporarily, and we agreed that it would be turned over to you after we were done with it…”

“And now you are done with it because the Americans have
destroyed
it!” Mohtaz said. “Will you leave us a smoking hole in the ground now?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. President!”

“I want anti-aircraft weapons, and I want them
now
!” Mohtaz screamed. “You told me six units of the S-300 and another dozen Tor-M1 missile vehicles were waiting for pre-delivery checkout in Turkmenistan. How long ago was that, Zevitin? Eight, ten weeks? How long does it take to unpack a few missile launchers, turn them on, and see if all the pretty lights come on? When are you going to deliver on your promises?”

“They will be delivered, Mr. President, do not worry,” Zevitin said. He didn't want to deliver missiles, especially the advanced S-300 strategic anti-aircraft and anti-ballistic missile system, until he was sure he could not get any more concessions from American President Joseph Gardner in exchange. Zevitin was perfectly willing to let Mohtaz rant and rave if he could get the Americans to agree not to put troops in Poland or the Czech Republic, or agree to veto any resolution in the United Nations that might allow Kosovo to break away from Serbia, in return. Those negotiations were in a critical stage, and he wasn't going to let Mohtaz screw them up.

“I want them now, Zevitin, or you can take all of your planes and tanks and radars back to Russia!” Mohtaz said. “I want the S-300 and Tor protecting Mashhad
tomorrow
. I want an impenetrable shield of missiles around that city when I return in triumph with my exiled government.”

“That is impossible, Excellency. It takes time to test those advanced weapon systems properly before deployment. I will have Minister Ostenkov and chief of staff General Furzyenko brief your military advisers on—”

“No! No! No more briefings and wasted time!” Mohtaz shouted. “I want them deployed
immediately
or I will see to it that the entire world knows of your duplicity! What would your American friends say if they learn that you agreed to sell Iran anti-aircraft missiles, chemical weapons, and anti-personnel rockets?”

“You agreed not to share any information…”

“And you agreed to give me anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin,” Mohtaz interjected. “Break your promises further, and we are finished. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan for all I care.” And at that the connection was broken.

 

T
ORBAT-E
-J
AM
U
NITED
N
ATIONS REFUGEE CAMP
, I
RAN

A
SHORT TIME LATER

“Easy now, lass, you're hurt. Don't move, eh?”

Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes…and immediately what little vision she had was shattered in a cloud of stars as the pain shot through her lower back, up through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she cried aloud. She felt a cool hand hold her forehead. “My God, my God…!”

“Believe it or not, lass, you shouting in pain is music to me ears,” the man said, his thick Irish brogue slowly becoming clearer and soothing in a way, “because if you were'na cryin' out so, I'd believe your spine was broken. Where does it hurt, lass?”

“My back…my lower back,” Charlie gasped. “It feels like…like my whole back is on fire.”

“On fire…that's funny, lass,” the man said. “I'm na surprised.” Charlie looked at the man in confusion. She could see the stethoscope dangling around his neck now. He was very young, like an older teenager, with closely cut reddish-blond hair, bright green eyes, and an ever-present smile—but his eyes showed deep concern. The glare of a single overhead lightbulb hurt her eyes, but she was thankful that at least her eyes were working. “You might say you're an angel from heaven…or maybe a fallen angel?”

“I don't understand, Doctor…Doctor…”

“Miles. Miles McNulty,” the man replied. “I'm na a doctor, but everyone out here believes I am, and that's good enough for all of us for now.”

Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she was starting to get accustomed to it, and found that it even subsided a bit if she moved just so. “Where are we, Mr. McNulty?” she asked.

“Och, c'mon, lass, you're makin' me feel old callin' me by what they call me old man,” Miles said. “Call me Miles, or Wooz if you like.”

“Wooz?”

“Some of the docs gave me the nickname after I got here—I guess I'd get a little woozy seein' some of the shit that goes on around here: the blood, the putrid water, the injuries, the infant deaths, the starvation, the damned evil that someone can do to another human bein' in the name of God,” Miles said, his young features momentarily turning hard and gray.

Charlie chuckled. “Sorry.” She was pleased when his smile returned. “I'll call you Miles. I'm Charlie.”

“Charlie? I know I've been here in the desert for a while, lass, but you na look like a ‘Charlie' to me.”

“Long story. I'll tell it to you sometime.”

“Love to hear it, Charlie.” He found a bottle in his jacket pocket and shook out some tablets. “Here. It's just over-the-counter NSAIDs—all the pain medication I dare give you until I do some more tests to find out if you're bleeding internally or if anything's broken.”

A large armored hand reached out and completely surrounded the man's hand—Charlie couldn't turn her head, but she knew who it was. “I'll have a look at those first,” he heard Chris Wohl's electronically synthesized voice say.

“Ah, it speaks,” Miles said. He took his hand and the pills back. Wohl undid his helmet, exercising a kink out of his neck. “Pardon me for saying, bub, but ye looked better with the helmet on,” he quipped, smiling broadly until he saw Wohl's warning glare. He put the tablets back into the bottle, shook it up, took one out, and popped it in his mouth. “I'm tryin' to help the lady, na hurt her.” Wohl allowed him to give Charlie three tablets and a sip of water.

“How do you feel?” Wohl asked.

“Not bad if I don't…move,” she said, gasping through a surge of pain. “I can't believe we made it.” Wohl's warning glance reminded her not to talk any more about what they had just experienced. “How long have we been here?”

“Not long,” Wohl responded. “About an hour.”

“Where's Three?” Wohl motioned to Charlie's left. Charlie's mouth instantly turned dry. The pain forgotten, she followed the big Marine's glance beside her…and she saw the other Tin Man, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table beside her as if laid out on a funeral bier. “Is he dead?” she asked.

“No, but he's been unconscious awhile,” Wohl said.

“I asked your comrade here if there's an on-off switch or latch or can opener to peel him open and check him out—I'm not even sure if it's a ‘him' or a machine.”

“We've got to get out of here as soon as possible,” Wohl said.

“I think I'd like to give the lass a look, if you don't mind,” Miles said to Wohl. “Ten minutes to look you over first, eh?”

“Five minutes.”

“All right, all right.” He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. “I hate to do this while you're hurting, lass, but it'll help me isolate the injured areas. Ready?”

“I guess so.”

“There's a game lass. I'm going to try not to move you too much myself, so try to move yourself along with me as much as you can—you're the best judge about how much is too much, yes? We'll start with the head and work our way down. Ready? Here we go.” With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it ever so carefully, stooping down with a flashlight as low as he could go to look behind her head and neck without her having to turn her head as much.

“Well, I'm na seein' anything sticking out,” Miles said after a few minutes. “You have a fun number of bruises and cuts, but so far nothing critical. I've seen much worse around here.”

“Where are you from, Miles?”

“I'm from God's back porch: Westport, County Mayo.” He didn't have to specify “Ireland.” “And you?” Charlie turned her eyes away and down, and Wohl changed position—not very much, just enough for everyone to remember he was present and not let the conversation
drift into unwanted territory. “Ah, that's okay, lass, I figured as much anyway. The only whites in these parts are relief workers and spies, and you're na dressed like a nurse.”

“Where are we?”

“You're here at Torbat-e-Jam, the United Nations refugee camp, originally set up for the poor bastards fleein' the Taliban in Afghanistan, and now used by the other poor bastards fleein' the Muslim insurgents,” Miles said. “I volunteered to help bring in a load of food and supplies about six months ago, but when the doctor's assistant went missing, I stayed. About a month ago, the doctor went missing—if the Taliban or al-Quds forces need a doctor, they don't send fer one, they
take
one—so I'm fillin' in until the next flight comes in. No tellin' when that will be, so I play the doc and help as best I can. I lose a few more than the doc did, but I'm startin' to get the hang of it, I think.”

“Tobat-e-Jam?”

“Iran,” Miles said. “Around here they still call it ‘Iran'—the insurgency hasn't reached this far yet, so they don't call it ‘Persia' yet, although the Revolutionary Guards Corps and al-Quds forces are gettin' pretty nervous, like the rebels are nippin' at their heels a wee bit. We're about sixty klicks from the border.”

“Inside Iran?”

“Afraid so, lass,” Miles said. “About two hundred kilometers from Mashhad, the capital of Khorasan province.”

“God, this is the
last
place we want to be,” Charlie moaned. She attempted to get up off the hard plywood board she was resting on and nearly passed out from a surging wave of pain that eclipsed anything else she had felt since awakening. “I'm not sure if I can make it yet,” she told Wohl. “Where's my…briefcase?”

“Right here,” Wohl said, without indicating where or what they were really talking about.

“You're in no shape to go anywhere, lass, and neither is your friend—as far as I can tell, at least,” Miles said.

“I'll make it,” Charlie said. “How far are we from the crash site?”

“About ten klicks,” Miles replied. “What is that thing, anyway…Mercury's chariot? It's not exactly an airplane, is it—more like a tin can with balloons on it. It was badly burned but intact.”

“How did you find us?”

“That wasn't a problem, lassie—we saw you streak across the sky and fall to Earth like a lightning bolt from Zeus himself!” Miles said, his eyes twinkling as the memory of seeing that sight came back. “Like the biggest meteor ever seen! You must have been trailing a tail of fire fifty kilometers long if it was an inch! It was a miracle to see three human beings still recognized as such in the wreckage, and even more amazing to find you still alive! We nearly shit our pants watchin' you blazin' down right toward us—thought the good Lord was going to end all of our sufferin' right then and there on the spot—but ya missed us. Findin' you alive was nothin' short of a miracle.”

“Unfortunately that means that the Pasdaran probably saw us as well.”

Miles nodded. “They di'na come around too often, but they're surely be sniffin' around out this way, for sure. The faster we get you folks out of here, the better for all of us. You should be well enough to travel after the painkiller kicks in. It won't be easy, but I think you can do it.” He turned to the Tin Man lying beside her. “Now this gent, I'm still not so sure. Can you tell me how to…unlock him, unscrew him, unbolt him, whatever, so I can have a look and check him over?”

“We don't have time, Miles,” Charlie said. “We'll carry him.” Choking back the pain, she managed to sit up on her cot. “We'll be going now, Miles. I want to thank you for all you've done for us.”

“I'll be sad to see you go, Charlie, but frankly I'd rather not have you around when the Pasdaran or al-Quds goons track you down here.” He looked carefully at Wohl and the Tin Man suit. “I think I've read about these things lately, haven't I? The American anti-terrorist outfit.” Charlie didn't respond. “Oh, I see—you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?” She laughed, causing a ripple of pain through her back, but she still welcomed the humor.
“All right, no more questions, Charlie. I'll go out and see if the coast is clear. Good luck to you, lass.”

“Thanks.” She grimaced at the pain as she started to pull herself up, but the stuff McNulty gave her must've started working because the pain wasn't debilitating this time. After McNulty departed, Charlie lowered her voice and spoke, “Odin, Stud Four.”

“We read you loud and clear, Four,” Patrick McLanahan responded via the subcutaneous global transceiver system. Every member of the Air Battle Force had the communications and data transceiver system implanted into their bodies for the rest of their lives, ostensibly for situations like this but realistically to allow the government to monitor each member's whereabouts for
life
. “Thank God you're alive. We read Five is with you.”