Strike Force

Buzhazi, Sattari, and a group of six security men entered the library. The place was as beautiful inside as it was stark outside: tall soaring ceilings capped with a beautiful mosaic tile dome, polished marble columns, shining marble floors inlaid with gold and silver, and long rows of oak bookshelves surrounded by tables, chairs, rugs, and computer workstations. A magnificent thick topaz carpet outside of an ornately decorated archway signified the entrance to the Khomeini mosque.

There was no one in the library at this hour. Just as Buzhazi started to worry about how to find the mullah in charge of the place, his wish was granted the moment he set foot on the topaz carpet without removing his boots: a man in a white turban and long flowing white and gray robes came running out of nowhere, waving his hands, followed by several assistants. “You! You! I have told you a hundred times, you may not enter the shrine of the faqih without permission from the imam! Now go!”

Buzhazi stood his ground. “I wish to speak with the imam immediately, priest,” he said.

“Have you gone mad? Morning prayers are not for another two hours — the imam receives no one until after prayers unless it’s an emergency, and normally not until after breakfast and morning rituals.” The mullah looked at Buzhazi. “I do not recognize you, soldier. Remove your helmet in this holy place and identify yourself.”

“I have information that you have important visitors here from Tehran with you, priest,” Buzhazi said, keeping the helmet in place. “I want to speak with the imam, immediately.”

“You will remove yourself from this place immediately!” the mullah shouted. “I shall see to it that you are relieved of duty and flogged for this act of gross disrespect!”

Buzhazi turned to one of the young men that had followed the mullah. “Does this man know where the imam is?”

“We all serve the imam of this library. But he will do nothing except…” He didn’t finish his sentence…because Buzhazi had withdrawn his pistol from its holster and shot one round through the mullah’s forehead. In a flash Sattari had his pistol out as well, covering the other acolytes.

Buzhazi kept the smoking pistol in his hand but did not point it at anyone. He turned to the young man he had just referred to: “Okay, son, now I’ll ask you the same question: do you have some special guests from Tehran here, and will you take me to them?”

The young man hesitated, then nearly fainted from fear as he saw Buzhazi roll his eyes impatiently and begin to raise his pistol. “Yes! Yes! We have guests staying here! Important men from Tehran, members of the Leadership Council, the Assembly of Experts, the Council of Guardians, and the Majlis.”

“And?”

“And…” He looked at the dead body of the mullah lying on the once-immaculate marble floor, his face ashen, and nodded. “Y-yes, I will take you.”

“Good boy.” Buzhazi motioned to Sattari, who radioed for more units to follow them inside and secure the library. “Describe where we’re going first, then take us.”

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D. C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“So what about your spaceplanes, Patrick?” President Kevin Martindale asked. “Where do we stand?”

“The second Black Stallion spaceplane is ready for operational flight testing, and the third will be ready in six months, sir,” Patrick replied. “The contractors are already tooled up for spare parts production and spiral upgrade development. They can be ready to restart full-scale production within two months of initial funding: we could have two more spacecraft ready within twelve months; the tankers can be ready in six months. Fuel and oxidizer are commercially produced worldwide, readily available, easily shipped and stored, and require no special training to handle — no need to expose the program by procuring or storing large amounts of cryogenic materials. The aircraft and tankers are easily concealed and deployed, need no special security or storage, and blend in with the tactical military inventories of any air base in the world.”

“So you can build another Air Battle Force made up of spaceplanes and park them out in Dreamland — with you in command?” National Security Adviser Sparks asked. “Got this all figured out, eh, McLanahan?” To the President he added, “The committees will see right through that, sir. Barbeau will get what she wants; then, at the first inkling of trouble from Dreamland — and I can guarantee there will be trouble — she’ll spearhead the charge to cut off funding and pillory you as the grand architect of the failed spaceplane scheme.” He glanced at McLanahan and said plainly, “With all due respect, sir, McLanahan is damaged goods.”

“He might be right, Patrick,” the President said. His attention was redirected at his chief of staff’s surprised expression. “Carl? What’s going on?”