An argument needs no reason, nor a friendship.
—IBYCUS, C. 580 B.C.
ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, IRAQ
TWO DAYS LATER
Voices in the Tank were much more muted than before; no one spoke except to make a report or observation. If they were not otherwise occupied, the department heads, operators, and specialists sat straight up in their seats and stared straight ahead—no chatting with comrades, no stretching, no sign of idleness.
Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle staff room, took his seat at the front console, and donned his headset. Without turning to face his staff, he spoke over the intercom: “We’ve been ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, reconnaissance, and intel. No IA combat support until further notice.”
“But all that stuff is done by the contractors, sir,” someone remarked on intercom. “What are we going to do?”
“We are going to train in case the shit hits the fan with Turkey,” Wilhelm replied.
“Are we at war with Turkey, sir?” the regimental executive officer, Mark Weatherby, asked.
“Negative,” Wilhelm replied tonelessly.
“Then why are we standing down, sir?” the regimental ops officer, Kenneth Bruno, asked. “We didn’t fuck up. We should be blasting hell out of the Turks for—”
“I asked the same questions and made the same comments,” Wilhelm interrupted, “and I was told by the Pentagon to pipe down, too, so now I’m telling you: pipe down. Listen up and pass the word to your troops:
“We are permanently on Force Protection Condition Delta. If I see you in the sunshine without your full battle rattle, and you’re not already dead, I will kill you myself. This base will be sealed up tighter than a flea’s poop chute. Woe befalls anyone who is seen without ID visible and displayed in the proper location, and that includes the senior staff and especially the civilians.
“As of this moment, this base is on a wartime footing—if we’re not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that is living and working with us, we’ll sure as hell defend ourselves,” Wilhelm went on. “We will not be sitting idly around with our thumbs up our asses—we’ll continue training as much as we’re allowed until we rotate out. Next, the Triple-C will be turned over to the IA as soon as—”
“What?” someone exclaimed.
“I said, pipe down,” Wilhelm snapped. “Official word from the Pentagon: we’re not going to be relieved. We’re closing up shop and turning the Triple-C over to the IA. All combat forces are moving out of Iraq, ahead of schedule. The IA is taking over.” It was the day many in that room had been praying for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but strangely no one was celebrating. “Well?” Wilhelm asked, looking around the Tank. “Aren’t you mokes happy?”
There was a long silence; then Mark Weatherly said, “It makes us look like we’re running, sir.”
“It makes us look like we can’t take a hit,” someone else chimed in.
“I know it does,” Wilhelm said. “But we know differently.” That didn’t seem to convince anyone—the silence was palpable. “We’ll uninstall all the classified stuff—which in the absence of detailed instructions will be most of our gear as far as I’m concerned—but the rest will be turned over to the Iraqi Army. We’ll still be here to train and assist the IA, but not with combat operations. It hasn’t been worked out whether their idea of ‘security operations’ is the same as ours, so we may still see some action, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Where’s McLanahan?”
“I’m up, Colonel,” Patrick replied over the command network. “I’m in the hangar.”
“The regiment’s main task now is to support the contractors,” Wilhelm said, his voice dead-cold and emotionless, “because all surveillance and security will be done by them. The Army is now just a trip-wire force, like we were in Korea before unification, and we’ll probably be reduced to an even lower size than we were before we left there completely. General McLanahan, get together with Captain Cotter and figure out airspace coordination with logistics flights, the UAVs, and your spook planes.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“McLanahan, I’ll meet you at the hangar in five. Everyone else, the exec will be meeting with you to discuss removing the classified gear and starting a training program. Oh, one more thing: the memorial service for Second Platoon will be tonight; they’ll be flown out to Germany tomorrow morning. That is all.” He threw his headset onto the desk and strode out without as much as a glance to anyone else.
The XC-57 had been moved to a large tent outdoors so the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare the fallen members of Second Platoon for their flight out of Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport had flown aluminum transfer cases in from Kuwait, and they were being unstacked in preparation for loading. Tables with the remains of the troops in body bags were lined up, and medical personnel, mortuary and registration volunteers, and fellow soldiers moved up and down the rows to assist, pray for them, or to say good-bye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to hold the remains of the more seriously decimated soldiers.
Wilhelm found Patrick standing beside one of the body bags, with a volunteer waiting to zip the bag up. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing across from him, he said, “Specialist Gamaliel came in last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space-planes. He told me he always wanted to fly and was thinking about crossing over to the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and then he left to join his platoon.”
Wilhelm looked at the badly scarred and bloodied body, said a silent thank you, Trooper, then said aloud, “We need to talk, General.” He nodded at the waiting soldiers, who reverently finished zipping the body bag closed. He followed Patrick down the line of body bags, then to an isolated portion of the hangar. “We’ve got VIPs flying in later today on a CV-22 Osprey,” he said.
“Vice President Phoenix. I know.”
“How the hell do you know all these things so quickly, McLanahan?”
“He’s flying in on our second XC-57 aircraft, not on the Osprey,” Patrick said. “They’re afraid the Osprey is too much of a target.”
“You guys must be plugged into the White House pretty tightly to pull that off.” Patrick said nothing. “Did you have anything to do with the decision to cease combat operations?”
“You knew you were winding down combat ops, Colonel,” Patrick said. “The Zakhu incident just accelerated things. As for how I know certain things…it’s my job to know or learn things. I use all the tools at my disposal to gather as much information as I can.”
Wilhelm took a step toward Patrick…but this time it was not menacing or threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question, one that he didn’t want others to hear in case it might reveal his own fears or confusion. “Who are you guys?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. “What in hell is going on around here?”
For the first time, Patrick softened his opinion of the regimental commander. He certainly knew what it was like to lose men in combat and lose control of a situation, and he understood what Wilhelm was feeling. But he didn’t yet deserve an answer or explanation.
“I’m sorry about your loss, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane coming in.”
The second XC-57 Loser aircraft touched down at Nahla Allied Air Base at eight P.M. local time. It had been preceded by a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport plane that the press and local dignitaries had been told would be carrying the vice president. The CV-22 executed the standard “high-performance” arrival—a high-speed dash into the base from high altitude, followed by a steep circle over the base to lose speed and altitude—and encountered no difficulties. By the time security forces had escorted the Osprey into a hangar, the XC-57 had already landed and taxied safely to another part of the base.
Jack Wilhelm, Patrick McLanahan, Jon Masters, Kris Thompson, and Mark Weatherly, all wearing identical civilian clothes—blue jeans, boots, plain shirt, sunglasses, and a tan vest, very similar to what Kris Thompson’s security forces typically wore—stood beside the XC-57 as the vice president climbed down the boarding ladder.
The only one in uniform was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, the Iraqi commander of Allied Air Base Nahla. He was in his usual desert gray battle dress uniform, but this time was wearing a green beret with an array of medals pinned to the blouse, black ascot, spit-shined boots and pistol holster, and a .45 caliber automatic pistol. He did not say anything to anyone except his aide, but he seemed to be watching Patrick, as if he wanted to speak with him.
No one except Jaffar saluted as Vice President Kenneth Phoenix stepped to the ground. Phoenix was dressed almost exactly as the other Americans—it looked like a gaggle of civilian security guards. Several other men and women alighted, dressed similarly.
Phoenix looked around, grinning at the sight, until his eyes finally locked onto a familiar face. “Thank God I recognize someone. I was starting to feel like I was having a weird dream.” He stepped over to Patrick and extended a hand. “Good to see you, General.”
“Good to see you, too, Mr. Vice President. Welcome to Iraq.”
“I wish it was under happier circumstances. So, you’re working for the ‘dark side’ now: the evil defense contractors.” Patrick made no response. “Introduce me around.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla.”
Jaffar did not lower his salute until he was introduced, and then he stood at rigid attention until Phoenix extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”
Jaffar shook his hand as stiffly as he stood. “I am honored you have you visit my base and my country, sir,” he said in a booming voice, his words obviously well rehearsed. “Es salaam alekum. Welcome to the Republic of Iraq and to Allied Air Base Nahla.”
“Es salaam alekum,” Phoenix said with a surprisingly good Arabic accent. “I am sorry for your losses, sir.”
“My men served with honor and died as martyrs in the service of their country,” Jaffar said. “They sit at the right hand of God. As for the ones who did this, they shall pay dearly.” He snapped to attention and looked away from Phoenix, terminating their conversation.
“Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jack Wilhelm, regimental commander.”
Phoenix extended a hand, and Wilhelm took it. “I’m very sorry for your losses, Colonel,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you come directly to me.”
“For now my only request is your presence at the departure ceremony for Second Platoon, sir. It’ll be in a couple hours.”
“Of course, Colonel. I’ll be there.” Wilhelm introduced the others from his command, and the vice president introduced the others who arrived with him. Kris Thompson then led them to waiting armored vehicles.
Before Patrick climbed into an armored Suburban, Jaffar’s aide came up to him and saluted. “My apologies for the interruption, sir,” the aide said in very good English. “The colonel wishes to speak with you.”
Patrick looked over at Jaffar, who was partially turned away from him. “Can it wait until our briefing with the vice president is over?”
“The colonel will not be attending the briefing, sir. Please?” Patrick nodded and motioned for the driver to go.
The Iraqi snapped to attention and saluted when Patrick stepped over to him. Patrick returned his salute. “General McLanahan. I apologize for the interruption.”
“You won’t be attending the briefing with the vice president, Colonel?”
“It would be an insult to my commander and the chief of staff of the Iraqi army for me to attend such a meeting before them,” Jaffar explained. “These protocols must be observed.” He glared at McLanahan, then added, “I should think that your commanding officers and diplomats in Baghdad would be similarly offended.”
“It’s the vice president’s decision, not ours.”
“The vice president cares little for such protocols?”
“He’s here to find out what happened and how our government can help get things straightened out, not observe protocols.”
Jaffar nodded. “I see.”
“He might think that you not attending the briefing is a breach of protocol, Colonel. He is here to help Iraq and the Iraqi army, after all.”
“Is that so, General?” Jaffar asked, a razor-sharp edge to his voice. “He comes unbidden to our country and expects me to attend a briefing that our president has not yet heard?” He made a show of thinking about his point, then nodded. “Please make my apologies to the vice president.”
“Of course. I can brief you later if you’d prefer.”
“That would be acceptable, General,” Jaffar said. “Sir, may I have permission to inspect your reconnaissance aircraft at your earliest convenience?”
Patrick was a little surprised: Jaffar hadn’t shown any interest in their activities whatsoever in the short time he’d been there. “There are some systems and devices that are classified and I can’t—”
“I understand, sir. I believe you call it NOFORN—no foreign nationals. I understand completely.”
“Then I’d be happy to show it to you,” Patrick said. “I can brief you on tonight’s reconnaissance run, show you the aircraft before the preflight inspections, and go over the unclassified data as we receive it to show you our capabilities. I’ll have to get Colonel Wilhelm’s and my company’s permission, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Nineteen hundred hours, in your office?”
“That is acceptable, General McLanahan,” Jaffar said. Patrick nodded and extended a hand, but Jaffar snapped to attention, saluted, spun on a heel, and walked quickly away to his waiting car, followed by his aide. Patrick shook his head, confused, then jumped into a waiting Humvee, which took him to the Command and Control Center.
Wilhelm was waiting for him in the conference room overlooking the Tank. Mark Weatherly was introducing the vice president to some of the staff members and explaining the layout of the Triple-C and the Tank. “Where’s Jaffar?” Wilhelm asked in a low voice.
“He’s not coming to the briefing. Said it would insult his commanders if he spoke with the vice president first.”
“Damn hajjis—this was supposed to be for his benefit,” Wilhelm said. “Why the hell didn’t he tell me himself?” Patrick didn’t answer. “What were you two talking about?”
“He wants to tour the Loser, get a briefing on our capabilities, and watch the next recon mission.”
“Since when is he interested in any of that stuff?” Wilhelm growled. “Today, of all days, just after us getting our asses chewed up and with Washington crawling up and down our backs.”
“I told him I needed your permission first.”
Wilhelm was about to say no, but he just shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “He’s entitled to be in the Tank for all operations—we keep the commander’s seat open for him, for God’s sake, even though he’s never been in it—so I guess I don’t have any choice. But he doesn’t get to see the NOFORN stuff.”
“I told him the same thing, and he understands. He even knew that term.”
“Probably saw it in a movie and likes to parrot it every chance he gets. I’ll bet it sticks in his craw.” Wilhelm shook his head again, as if erasing the entire conversation from his head. “Are you still going to tell the vice president your theory?”
“Yes.”
“Only you can add two and two and come up with five. It’s your funeral. Okay, let’s get this over with.” Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who cut his talk short and motioned the vice president to a waiting seat.
Wilhelm stood uncomfortably at the dais as everyone settled in. “Mr. Vice President, distinguished visitors, thank you for this visit,” he began. “Your presence so quickly after the tragedy last night sends a clear and important signal to not just the regiment but to all of the players in this conflict. My staff and I stand ready to assist you in your investigation.
“I know there are a lot of VIPs—the Iraqi prime minister, the ambassador, the commander of coalition forces in Iraq—waiting to greet you who will be very angry to learn that you came here instead of going to base headquarters to meet them,” Wilhelm went on, “but General McLanahan and I thought you needed to hear from us first. Unfortunately, the base commander, Colonel Jaffar, will not be here.”
“Did he say why not, Colonel?” the vice president asked.
“He told me it would be a breach of protocol to talk with you before his superior officers did, sir,” Patrick replied. “He sends his regrets.”
“It was his men that were killed and his homeland that was attacked. Who cares who hears from us first?”
“Would you like me to get him back here, sir?”
“No, let’s press on,” Phoenix said. “I’m not really concerned about stepping on toes right now, except for the ones responsible for killing our soldiers, and then I’ll make sure that bastard is taken down.
“Okay, gents, I wanted to get this briefing from you because I know the Iraqis, Kurds, and Turks want to brief me soon, and I know they’re going to spin it their way; I wanted to get the first word from you. The word from the Turks is that they’re not doing anything except defending their homeland against the PKK and that the bombardment was a tragic but simple mistake. Let’s hear your take.”
“Roger that, sir.” The electronic display behind Wilhelm flared to life, showing a map of the border region between northern Iraq and southeast Turkey. “They’ve increased their Jandarma border forces over the past year or so, including special ops battalions, along with a few more aviation units, to help deal with the PKK cross-border incursions. They’ve sent a few regular army units to the southwest as well, perhaps one or two brigades.”
“Much bigger than normal deployments, I assume?” the vice president asked.
“Substantially bigger, sir, even considering the recent PKK terror attacks at Diyarbakir,” Wilhelm replied.
“And what do we have on this side?”
“Together with the Iraqis, sir—about a third of their force, and a fraction of the air forces,” Wilhelm replied. “The biggest threat is their tactical air forces in the region. Diyarbakir is home to Second Tactical Air Forces Command, responsible for the defense of the Syria, Iraq, and Iran border regions. They have two wings of F-16 fighter-bombers and one wing of F-4E Phantom fighter-bombers, plus one new wing of A-10 Thunderbolt Two close air support aircraft and one wing of F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers, recently acquired from the United States as surplus equipment.”
“Surplus F-15s—that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” the vice president said, shaking his head. “Aren’t they still undefeated in combat?”
“I believe so, sir,” Wilhelm said. “But with the recent drawdown of U.S. Air Force fighters in favor of Navy and Marines carrier-based tactical fighters, a lot of good Americans weapons came on the export market.”
“I know, I know—I fought hard to stop the outflow of such high-tech stuff,” Phoenix said. “But President Gardner is a real military expert as well as a big supporter of the Navy, and Congress was solidly behind his transformation and modernization plans. The Air Force got hosed, and countries like Turkey are reaping the benefits. If we can’t convert F-22s for carrier ops, Turkey is likely to get Raptors, too. Okay, soapbox over. Please continue, Colonel. What other threats are you facing?”
“Their larger antiaircraft systems such as the Patriot missile, large-caliber radar-guided triple-A, and British Rapier surface-to-air missiles are arrayed against Iran and Syria,” Wilhelm went on. “We can expect them to move some systems farther west, but of course Iraq is not a threat from the air, so I think they’ll keep their SAMs deployed against Iran and Syria. Smaller guns and shoulder-fired Stinger missiles can be encountered anywhere and are widely deployed in armored battalions.
“The Turkish Jandarma paramilitary forces deploy several special operations battalions, mostly to hunt down and destroy PKK insurgent and terror units. They get a lot of good training, and we consider them to be equivalent to a Marine recon unit—light, fast, mobile, and deadly.”
“Their commander, General Besir Ozek, was badly hurt in the last big PKK attack in Diyarbakir,” Patrick added, “but he’s apparently up and around and directing his forces in hunt-and-kill operations throughout the border regions. He’s undoubtedly the one who executed the rocket attack on Zakhu.”
“I definitely need to have a talk with him,” the vice president said. “So, Colonel, what’s your explanation for all this activity?”
“It’s not my job to analyze, sir,” Wilhelm said, “but they’re gearing up for an offensive against the PKK. They’re backing up the Jandarma with regular military forces in a show of force. The PKK will scatter and keep their heads down; the Turks will hit a few bases, and then everything will go back to relative normalcy. The PKK’s been doing this for over thirty years—Turkey can’t stop them.”
“Sending in the regular military—that’s something they haven’t done before,” Phoenix observed. He glanced at Patrick. “General, you are suddenly quiet.” He looked back at Wilhelm. “There appears to be disagreement here. Colonel?”
“Sir, General McLanahan is of the opinion that this buildup of Turkish forces in this region is a prelude to a full-scale invasion of Iraq.”
“An invasion of Iraq?” Phoenix exclaimed. “I know they’ve done a lot of cross-border raids over the years, but why a full invasion, General?”
“Sir, it’s exactly because they have done a lot of raids, and they haven’t succeeded in stopping or even slowing the number of PKK attacks, that will prompt them to stage an all-out assault on the PKK in Iraq—not just the strongholds, training bases, and supply dumps along the border, but on the Kurdish leadership themselves. I think they’ll want to crush the PKK problem in one lightning thrust and kill as many as they can before American and international pressure forces them to withdraw.”
“Colonel?”
“The Turks simply don’t have the manpower, sir,” Wilhelm said. “We’re talking about an operation similar in scope to Desert Storm—two hundred and fifty thousand troops, minimum. The Turkish army is approximately four hundred thousand total, mostly conscripts. They would need to commit one-third of their regular armed forces plus another one-half of their reserves for this one operation. That would take months and billions of dollars. The Turkish army is simply not an expeditionary force—they’re built for anti-insurgent operations and self-defense, not for invading other countries.”
“General?”
“The Turks would be fighting from their own soil and fighting for self-preservation and national pride,” Patrick said. “If they committed half of their regular and reserve forces, they’d have close to half a million troops available, and they have a very large pool of trained veterans to use. I see no reason why they wouldn’t order a full mobilization of all forces for a chance to destroy the PKK once and for all.
“But the new game-changing factor in play here is the Turkish air force,” Patrick went on. “In years past, the Turkish military was mostly an internal counterinsurgency force with a secondary role as a NATO trip wire against the Soviet Union. Its navy is good but it’s tasked mostly for defending the Bosporus and Dardanelles and patrolling the Aegean Sea. The air force was relatively small because it relied on the U.S. Air Force for support.
“But in just the past two years that’s changed, and now Turkey has the largest air force in Europe except for Russia. They’ve been buying a lot more than surplus F-15s, sir—they bought all sorts of surplus noncarrier qualified attack aircraft, including the A-10 Thunderbolt tactical bombers, AC-130 Spectre gunships, and Apache gunship helicopters, along with weapons such as Patriot surface-to-air missiles, AMRAAM air-to-air missiles, and Maverick and Hellfire precision-guided air-to-ground missiles. They license-build F-16 fighters right in Turkey; they have as many F-16 squadrons available for action as we did in Desert Storm, and they’ll all be fighting right from home. And I wouldn’t discount their air defenses so easily: they can move their Patriots and Rapiers to oppose any action from us very easily.”
Vice President Phoenix thought for a moment, and then nodded to both men. “You both make convincing arguments,” he said, “but I’m inclined to agree with Colonel Wilhelm.” Phoenix eyed Patrick warily, as if waiting for an argument, but Patrick kept silent. “I find it very hard to believe that—”
At that moment a phone buzzed, and it was as if a Klaxon had gone off—everyone knew that no phone calls would have been allowed during this briefing unless it was extremely urgent. Weatherly picked up the phone…and moments later, his expression made everyone in the room take notice.
Weatherly went over to a computer monitor nearby, read a dispatch silently with a quivering lip, then said, “Top-priority message from division, sir. The State Department has notified us that the president of Turkey may announce a state of emergency.”
“Crap, I was afraid something like that might happen,” Phoenix said. “We may not get a chance to meet with the Turks to investigate the shelling. Colonel, I’ll need to speak with the White House.”
“I can set that up right away, sir.” Wilhelm nodded to Weatherly, who immediately got on the phone to the communications officer.
“I’ll get the briefings from the ambassador, the Iraqis, and the Turks, but my recommendation to the president will be to step up border monitoring.” The vice president turned to Patrick. “I still can’t believe Turkey would invade Iraq with three thousand U.S. troops in the way,” he said, “but obviously things are changing fast, and we’ll need to get some eyes up there. I assume that’s what your pregnant stealth bomber is for, General?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’d get it ready to go,” Phoenix said as Wilhelm motioned to him that his link to the White House was ready, “because I think we’ll need it…soon. Very soon.” Weatherly motioned for him that his communications setup was ready, and he and the vice president departed.
Patrick hung back with Wilhelm as everyone else filed out of the conference room. “So, what do you have in mind, General?” Wilhelm asked. “Plan on sending your pregnant stealth bomber up over Turkey this time instead of just over our sector? That’ll really calm everyone’s nerves around here.”
“I’m not going to send the Loser over Turkey, Colonel, but I’m not going to let the Turks relax, either,” Patrick said. “I want to see what the Turks have in mind if any aircraft strays too close to the border. We know they’ll hit back hard against any PKK land incursions. What will they do if it starts to look like the United States is poking around on their side of the border too much with aircraft?”
“Think that’s smart, McLanahan? That could ratchet up the tension around here even more.”
“We’ve got a lot of dead troopers in your hangar out there, Colonel,” Patrick reminded him. “I want to be sure the Turks know that we are very, very angry at them right now.”