Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (42 page)

“So you think I should be on the plane right now to Turkmenistan?”

“I think if President Thorn cared at all about American business and American prestige overseas, not to mention the faith and trust the American people have in him and his government, he should have put you on a plane to Turkmenistan last month.”

Hershel nodded, then turned and called, “Isadora?”

A moment later a tall, dark-haired woman appeared, dressed in a business outfit every bit as nice as Maureen's. Martindale leaped to his feet as if propelled by a hydraulic lift—he couldn't take his eyes off the woman.

“Mr. Martindale, may I present Assistant Deputy Secretary of State Isadora Meiling. Izzy, this is Kevin H. Martindale.” He aimed his
People
magazine smile at her, drinking in her deep, dark eyes. “Let's get authorization and clearance for that SAM flight to Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, right away.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She favored Martindale with a mind-blowing smile and hurried off.

As mesmerized as Martindale was, his attention was drawn away by the shock of Hershel's order. “You . . . you're going to Turkmenistan?
Now?
”

“Right now.”

“What about your preparation? Don't you have security arrangements to make, briefings to organize, meetings to set up with foreign office officials, communiqués to the embassies, coordination of agreements and position papers . . . ?”

“The planning for this trip was already in the works,” Hershel said. “I'm sure we'll overnight in Washington, maybe meet with the director of Central Intelligence and get the latest situation reports. That'll give the staff a day or two to organize. But it's a long flight to Turkmenistan. I imagine we'll be busy the entire way.”

“What about your appearances scheduled for the West Coast?”

“I think this is much more important, don't you?” Hershel asked sincerely, watching Martindale carefully.

Martindale did not—
could
not—answer. He would never pass up any large political rallies or appearances, especially with major West Coast media involved, in favor of going to a shithole like Turkmenistan with virtually no press and the possibility of considerable personal danger involved. But if he said it wasn't important, he would be contradicting himself.

He didn't need to answer. Maureen Hershel could see the dilemma in his face. Instead of replying, he asked, “How do you know the Turkmen government will even allow you into the country?”

“You're right. They might not like a State Department official poking her nose into their backroom dealing.” She looked over at Martindale. “But there's one way to entice them to agree to see us.”

“What's that? Offer them financial assistance?”

“Even better than that—I should bring
you
along. Would you like to accompany us, Kevin?”

“
Me?
Go to Turkmenistan with you? Now?”

“I'm going to make the last scheduled appearance here in San Francisco, but right after that we'll be off,” Hershel said. “I figure in about three hours. What do you say?” Martindale hesitated. “I'm sure Miss Meiling will be busy, but I think she'd enjoy your company.”

He could think of a dozen things he had on his schedule that couldn't be missed, and with no prep and no real agenda, the trip would likely be a total flop. There wasn't even a guarantee that Hershel would be allowed to meet with any of the principals involved. But the opportunity to get a glimpse of the inner workings of Thorn's foreign-policy team in action couldn't be missed either. And, naturally, the happy thought of spending some time with Isadora Meiling sealed the deal. “Of course, Miss Deputy Secretary. I'd be happy to accompany you.”

“Good. I'll tell her you'll be accompanying us. I'm sure she'll be thrilled.”

“I do have one question,” Martindale said.

“Fire away.”

“What are your rules about disclosing conversations discussed during the trip?”

“You mean are we going to allow you to talk to the press about what you see and hear on this trip?”

Martindale said nothing, but Hershel knew his silence meant yes.

“President Thorn believes in completely open and honest disclosure with all American citizens, even potential political adversaries. We may exclude you from some discussions, but if you see or hear anything, you're free to discuss it or mention it to anyone you choose.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the president's position.” I would never allow the same, he thought, but if Thorn wanted to deal his cards faceup like this, all the better. “At the same time I assume that the president will make as much political hay as he can about my participation in this trip.”

“I suppose it's possible—to the extent that the president makes any political hay at all,” Hershel said. “But who knows? Maybe you'll see something in this administration that appeals to you, and we can convince you to support the president's reelection campaign?”

“If the president wanted my help, he could have asked me.”

“The president doesn't often ask for help, especially from those he considers political rivals,” Hershel said. “Perhaps he was wrong in this case?”

“It sounds as if
you're
heading up Thorn's reelection campaign, Maureen.”

“If the president asked me to do so, I'd be honored.” Hershel smiled and nodded. “Very good. I'll leave you to head back and get ready for the trip. A car will pick you up.” She shook hands with him. “I think this will be an educational journey for both of us.”

He shook her hand and then, as they were heading for the door of her hotel suite, asked, “Miss Hershel, Turkmenistan is a . . . rather dangerous place right now. Do you think it's wise to be going there at this time?”

“I suppose if we go and we come back safe, folks will say it was a successful and worthwhile trip—and if we get hurt or killed, they'll say it was a stupid move,” she replied. She shrugged. “I can't really answer that question, Kevin. I know we have work to do out there, and I think at this stage in the game, a personal visit is warranted. I guess we can't always go on diplomatic missions like this only when it's safe, can we?” She shook his hand again. “It'll be fine, Kevin. I'll see you on the plane.” She hurried off, leaving him alone in stunned silence.

What in hell did I just get myself into? he thought grimly.

• • •

“Pompous ass,” Maureen Hershel said to Isadora Meiling as she returned to her makeshift office in an adjacent room. “Still, I have to give the bastard credit. He agreed to go on the trip, even though he knows how dangerous it is.”

“I'm wondering if
you
fully understand how dangerous it is, ma'am,” Meiling said. She held up a red-covered folder marked classified. “Latest intelligence reports state that Russian transports are arriving in the capital, offloading a lot of Russian officers and communications equipment. CIA speculates the Russians are putting together a wartime command infrastructure. And there's something about Iranian troops moving toward the borders, maybe preparing for some kind of military action.”

“Izzy, I let myself get sucked into this. It's too late to back down now,” Hershel said.

“You most certainly do have options—starting with canceling this trip. Deep down inside, Martindale will be breathing a sigh of relief if you cancel. Then
he
won't be putting his tight ass on the line.”

“But then he'll be publicly slamming me for backing down in the face of the war threat and not doing enough to stabilize the situation,” Hershel said. “I have to go.”

“Please bring along some security,” Meiling said. “At least a couple platoons of Marines, in addition to the security staff at the embassy. We'll request the reinforcements right away.”

Hershel thought for a moment, then smiled. “No. I've got a better idea. Get General McLanahan at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base on the line for me. Tell him I need some security support right away.”

“Battle Mountain is an Air Reserve base. They don't have troops stationed there. You mean Quantico or Cherry Point—”

“No. McLanahan has the forces I want,” Hershel said. “And he won't need another logistics flight to move them, either. He'll have them ready and waiting for us in Washington by the time we get back, you'll see. We'll need diplomatic credentials for them. Make sure they have those ready for us.”

“That'll take time. Turkmenistan doesn't process those kinds of requests quickly—no one in Central Asia does.”

“But I predict Mr. Martindale won't have any difficulty getting a visa,” Hershel mused. “Credential McLanahan's people as embassy security personnel.”

“That'll use up our only allotted short-notice personnel-changeover slot for this year.” To help prevent introducing spies into their countries and to help the nation's internal security apparatus to track foreigners, Turkmenistan, like many other countries, allowed embassy security personnel to change only once per year if there was less than thirty days' notice.

“That can't be helped,” Hershel said. “I don't think Turkmenistan will be a very friendly place in the near future anyway. We might end up pulling everyone out soon. And if we can ultimately help that country, they'll agree to give us all the personnel we want.”

“You're going to take a supplemental security force to Turkmenistan on board your own plane? That's impossible. An embassy-reinforcement team usually deploys in a separate C-141 or C-17. . . .”

“They'll come in our plane,” Hershel said with a smile, “and they'll look like the rest of us—until they get inside the embassy. Get Patrick—I mean General McLanahan—on the line for me right now.”

“ ‘Patrick,' huh?” Izzy Meiling asked with a mischievous smile as she used a secure telephone to dial the communications center at the federal building in San Francisco. “Someone out there in Nevada made an impression on you, I see.”

“He's definitely off-limits until I can find out what's happened to him over the past few months—something very tragic and horrible,” Maureen said. “The guy might have scar tissue in place of his heart, and that's the
last
thing I need in my life.”

“But you care enough to find out?”

“I want
him
to tell me what's happened, not some Pentagon intelligence wonk,” Maureen said. “But . . . yes, I think he's worth pursuing. Anyone who can stand up to the president of the United States when he's on the warpath has got some nerves of steel.”

“Not to mention a big pair of you-know-whats,” Izzy said.

“Get him on the phone and wipe that smirk off your face, sister, or I'll sic Kevin Martindale on you again.”

“Hey, I can put up with a lot of nonsense for the kind of money that guy has,” Meiling said. “A
whole
lot.”

Five
|

That same time

F
or the thousandth time in just the past few days, Jalaluddin Turabi asked himself why he was there, why he chose to march with Zarazi's army into the heart of this godforsaken country. Why in hell was he standing on this armored personnel carrier, protected only by several thousand acres of cotton—while what appeared to be the entire Turkmen army was marching toward them? Wakil Mohammad Zarazi's campaign to capture the western half of Turkmenistan and turn it into a training ground for Muslim holy warriors did indeed seem to be blessed. Except now the blessings of Allah were going to be severely put to the test.

Up to that morning their campaign seemed to be not only blessed but plainly miraculous. They captured Gaurdak with barely a shot fired. After their victory at Kerki, the Turkmen soldiers at Gaurdak fairly rushed into their arms. Their army nearly doubled in size overnight. They had over six thousand fighters plus dozens of attack and scout helicopters, weapons of all kinds, from pistols to self-propelled artillery pieces, and vehicles ranging from motorcycles to main battle tanks.

Turabi was simply caught up in the emotion of their victories. When the army started marching westward along the Amu Darya River, he couldn't help but come along. His original idea was to remain behind at Gaurdak, in charge of the “rear guard,” and then prepare to bug out at the first sign of a Turkmen army counterattack. However, they had captured the hearts and souls of not just the Turkmen army, but the people there as well—there was clearly no need for a rear guard. Zarazi's army started moving westward, and Turabi could do nothing but march as well.

When Zarazi's brigade was one day's march away from Chärjew, the largest city on the Amu Darya River and a major nexus for oil and gas transshipments across Central Asia, an armored personnel carrier, its fifty-seven-millimeter cannon removed and a white flag flying in its place on the turret, came out onto the main highway to meet them. A young man wearing a leather jacket, a bump helmet over a pair of headphones, and knee-high tanker boots was standing in the APC's cupola. Zarazi, Turabi, and Orazov—the Russian-speaking Turkmen traitor was now seemingly inseparable from Zarazi—rode out in their own APC, with the cannon installed, to meet him.