Rogue Forces

“Permission to accompany the general to transient quarters, sir,” armed-forces chief of staff Guzlev said.

Hirsiz looked at his military chief of staff questioningly, finding no answers. He glanced at Ozek, inwardly wincing again at his horrific wounds but finding himself wondering when the best time would be to dismiss the wild raging bull before him. The sooner the better, but not before he had taken every propaganda advantage of his incredible survival.

“We shall reconvene the national security staff in twenty minutes in the Council of Ministers’ conference center to map out a response, General Guzlev,” the president said warily. “Please be back by then. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” Guzlev said. He and Ozek stood at attention momentarily, then headed for the door, with Guzlev carefully holding Ozek’s less-wounded arm for support.

“What in the world possessed Ozek to come all the way to Ankara after barely surviving a plane crash?” Foreign Minister Hamarat asked incredulously. “My God, the pain must be excruiating! I was once in a minor fender bender and I hurt for weeks afterward! That man was pulled from the burning wreckage of a downed aircraft just a few hours ago!”

“He’s angry and he’s out for blood, Mustafa,” Prime Minister Akas said. She stepped over to Hirsiz, who still appeared to be standing at attention as if placed in a brace by Ozek. “Don’t pay attention to Guzlev and Ozek,” she added in a whisper. “They’re out for blood. We’ve spoken about an invasion many times before and dismissed it every time.”

“Maybe this is the right time, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz whispered back. “Guzlev, Cizek, Ozek, and even Sahin are for it.”

“You’re not seriously considering it, are you, Mr. President?” Akas whispered back with an incredulous hiss. “The United States would never agree. We’d be pariahs in the world’s eyes…”

“I’m beginning to not care what the world thinks of us, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “How many more funerals do we have to attend before the world lets us do something about the rebel Kurds out there?”

ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, TALL KAYF, NEAR MOSUL, IRAQ

TWO DAYS LATER

“Nahla Tower, Scion One-Seven, nine miles out, requesting visual approach to runway two-niner.”

“Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are number one, cleared to land,” the supervising Iraqi army controller responded in very good but heavily accented English. “Recommend Nahla enhanced arrival procedure three, the base is at Force Protection Condition Bravo, cleared for enhanced arrival procedure three, acknowledge.”

“Negative, Nahla, Scion One-Seven wants clearance for the visual to two-niner.”

The supervisor was unaccustomed to anyone not following his instructions to the letter, and he stabbed at his mike button and shot back: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, a visual approach is not authorized in FPCON Bravo conditions.” FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called “Threat Condition” or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that actionable intelligence had been received that an attack was possible. “You will execute procedure three. Do you understand? Acknowledge.”

A phone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked it up. A moment later he handed the receiver to the supervisor: “Sir? The deputy base commander for you.”

The supervisor, further annoyed by being interrupted while he was working an inbound flight, snatched the receiver away from his deputy. “Captain Saad. I’ve got an arriving flight, sir, can I call you back?”

“Captain, let that inbound flight do the visual pattern,” he heard the familiar voice of the American colonel say. The deputy base commander was obviously listening in on the tower frequency awaiting this flight. “It’s his funeral.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Why an American special mission aircraft would risk getting shot at by not performing the high-performance arrival procedure was unclear, but orders were orders. He gave his deputy the receiver, sighed, and touched the mike button again: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are cleared for the visual approach and overhead pattern to runway two-niner, winds two-seven zero at twenty-five knots gusting to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, cleared to land.”

“Scion One-Seven, cleared for the visual and overhead to two-niner, cleared to land.”

The supervisor picked up the crash phone: “Station One, this is the tower,” he said in Arabic. “I have a flight on final approach to land, and I’ve cleared him for a visual approach and pattern.”

“Say again?” the dispatcher at the airport fire station queried. “But we’re at FPCON Bravo.”

“The American colonel’s orders. I wanted to put you guys on notice.”

“Thanks for the call. The captain will probably move us out to our ‘hot spots’ on taxiway Delta.”