Strike Force

Unseen by anyone who might be watching the operation — unlikely, since the police enforced a strict dawn-to-dusk curfew in the capital district of the city, punishable by caning — was a second armored vehicle that had slipped in to a fenced official parking lot in the rear of the building. A single guard opened the barbed-wire-topped gate and let the armored car through. The vehicle drove to a dark rear corner of the lot and parked near several other similar vehicles, and moments later the driver alighted and walked away, exiting the lot without turning back. Except for the occasional squawk of a peacock — used in Turkmenistan like a watchdog — the place quickly fell silent once again.

Several minutes later a sedan was admitted through the gate, and it parked a few yards away from the armored vehicle. Two security guards, with AKS-74 assault rifles at the ready, emerged from the sedan and took up guard positions. Moments later, a man in a long coat emerged, went around to the other side of the sedan, and opened the door for Turkmeni president Jalaluddin Turabi.

“Everything is clear, sir,” the chief of Turabi’s security detail said. “No sign of them.”

Turabi looked into the darkness outside the floodlit walls and chuckled. “They’re here, don’t worry,” he said. “They’ve probably been here for a while.” He walked over to the armored vehicle and rapped on the side door, and a guard inside opened it up. “How are you tonight, Princess?”

Azar Assiyeh Qagev leaned forward in her seat, squinting in the darkness. “Very well, thank you,” she said in passable Turkmeni, her tone of voice suspicious yet pleasant. “I presume I have the honor of addressing President Jalaluddin Turabi?”

“My staff informed me that you are observant and smart — I see they were not exaggerating,” Turabi said after shaking off his surprise.

“Do you intend on turning me over to the Iranian government without benefit of legal process?” Azar asked.

“As far as Turkmenistan is concerned, you are a citizen of the United States and Turkey, and you have broken no laws in Turkmenistan,” Turabi said. “If Iran has charged you with serious crimes, according to treaty you must be taken before a judge who will hear their arguments. But we have reason to believe your life is in danger, so you will be taken someplace safe until your extradition hearing.”

“I am forever in your debt, Mr. President,” Azar said.

“Why are you in Turkmenistan, Princess?” Turabi asked. “Certainly not to upgrade our cellular phone system.”

“I hope I don’t appear ungrateful, sir,” Azar said, “but I don’t wish to discuss this without benefit of legal counsel. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Turabi said, checking his watch. “I was hoping there was some other way I could help, that’s all.”

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASHKHABAD,

TURKMENISTAN

THAT SAME TIME

“Things look quiet out here, One,” Master Sergeant Chris Wohl radioed via the Tin Man battle armor’s built-in satellite transceiver. Wohl was hidden at the rendezvous point suggested by Jalaluddin Turabi, observing the area for any signs of danger. “Turabi just showed up. You copy, Genesis?”

“Roger that,” Dave Luger radioed from the Dreamland Battle Management area. “Sorry, but it looks like the drone you launched isn’t sending any video, just stills every few minutes. You copy us, Stud Five?”

“Roger,” Hunter Noble responded. He was patrolling the southern section of their landing spot outside of the capital, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun. “We lost the video too, so we’re all out patrolling the area.” He looked over to where his copilot and mission commander, Captain Wil Lefferts, was nervously pacing, another H&K MP-5 submachine gun cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Six’s about ready to have a cow, I think.”

“What’s wrong, Five?”

“Nothing — it’s just quiet as hell out here,” Boomer replied. “Wil — er, I mean, Six — jumps at every little sound.” He peered out through the darkness. His eyes were finally getting night-adapted, and he could see more and more details of their surroundings. “This is a great landing site, guys — a road plenty long for us to land on, lots of cover, far from any major highways, and open space for Stud Four to run around.” Boomer had landed the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane outside a large truck parking area several miles outside the capital city of Ashkhabad. The facility appeared to be abandoned — it was easy to find from the air, easy to approach, and easy to touch down. There was a long, wide access road to the west of the complex, and that’s where Boomer landed the XR-A9.

“Just keep your eyes open, guys,” Dave said. He didn’t voice his main concerns again — the fact that Jalaluddin Turabi had recommended this spot for an insertion — because Dave had already expressed his doubts several times already. He had insisted on, and Patrick had approved, several methods to ensure that their crews weren’t walking into a trap: