“Great, Kai. Keep me posted.”
“Roger that. Armstrong clear.”
Patrick dismissed everyone from the meeting except Dave Luger, then sat back to think. It wasn’t just a stretch to link the persons apparently being apprehended in Ashkhabad with three political refugees from Minnesota…it was almost science fiction. But what if it was true? He wasn’t going to just sit on the information.
Patrick phoned the Secretary of State’s office. No one was available to speak with him — no surprise there — until he drilled all the way down the hierarchy to the assistant undersecretary of state for Central Asian affairs, Norman Moller. “Mr. Moller, good morning, this is General McLanahan, calling from Elliott Air Force Base in Nevada, secure.”
“Norman Moller, assistant undersecretary for Central Asian affairs, secure,” Moller recited for the benefit of the dozens of overt and covert listening and recording systems monitoring all government calls these days.
“How are you today, sir?”
“The Patrick McLanahan? The guy who bombed Russia after the Holocaust?”
“Yes, sir. I have a question I’m hoping you can answer.”
“I’ll try.”
“I received information from my intelligence sources that indicate that three foreign persons under the State Department’s protection, ones who recently left Minnesota, were spotted in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan, and may have been picked up by the Iranians. Can you confirm this for me?”
There was a considerable silence on the phone, long enough to confirm in Patrick’s mind that his and Raydon’s guesses were correct. Finally: “I’ll have to call you back to confirm your identity, General,” Moller said. “I’ll be in touch shortly. Good-bye. Moller clear.”
In Washington-speak “shortly” could means five minutes or five days, Patrick knew. He let out a breath…loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “You stirring up more shit, Muck?” he asked. “What are you thinking about?”
“I want to find out who the Iranians and Turkmenis captured at that bazaar in Turkmenistan,” Patrick said.
“That station’s sensors are really incredible, and the technology is twenty years old,” Dave said. “Just wait till we start upgrading the processors. But I digress. Why do you care about this particular contact — you have a thing about princesses? Maybe the troops captured a good-looking female nomad and that’s their pet nickname for her.”
“It’s not just about the princess — it’s about what to do about Iran,” Patrick said. “Buzhazi is going to need a lot more help if he hopes to battle the Pasdaran for control of the Iranian government. Remember all the stuff in the news lately about former Persian monarchs and their families living in the United States?”
“Yeah — I thought it was just fluff pieces,” Dave said. “Some royal family wishing to return in case the fundamentalist government is brought down — not the most recent royal family, but one from before the Shah. I can’t remember his name. The guy has a blog on the Internet. I think he uses it to send secret instructions to his loyalists in Iran or something.” He logged into his computer at his console beside Patrick and punched in instructions.
“Well, Ashkhabad is very close to the Iranian border,” Patrick said. “If someone was going to sneak across, that would be a good place to do it.”
“Says here that all the children of the heir presumptive of the Qagev dynasty, the last true monarchy in power in Iran before the revolution, were killed by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards after Khomeini took power,” Dave said. “So the ‘princess’ thing might be going nowhere.” He surfed a few more sites. “There are kids still around from the Pahlavi dynasty living in America.”
“In Minnesota?”
“Doesn’t say. The previous dynasty’s heir lives near Dallas. Want me to call the State Department and ask?”
“Already did — they hung up on me. I left a message for Carson and CCed Sparks — they can’t ignore me forever.”
“Sounds like you’re right on the mark, or really really warm, and that’s taking the rest of the White House and State Department by surprise,” Dave said.
“What if there were not just a few old monarchs still alive, but they had a following, maybe even an army?” Patrick said. “What if they were all waiting for a time just like now to rise up and try to overthrow the Islamist government?”
“A sleeper army, underground since before the fall of the Shah, big and strong enough to take on the Iranian Revolutionary Guards?” Dave asked. “So what if there is?”
“Then if the princess is part of this sleeper army, maybe even the leader, she needs to be rescued so she can lead her army against the Pasdaran.”
Dave laughed. “Sounds like your space flight has restricted blood flow to your brain, sir,” he said. “So you’re thinking of sending in a Battle Force squad to snatch this princess — if she really is a princess and not just an endearing term used by the soldiers for a hooker they found in the bazaar — and set her on the path of revolution?”
“We’re planning on sending in the Battle Force to hunt for Iranian missiles — this would be a good reason to go in and probe Iran’s northeastern frontier,” Patrick said. “If there is an Iranian princess, and she has followers, they can help our guys get into the country.”
“I don’t think we need help getting into the country, Muck,” Dave said. But his mind was beginning to churn now as well. “We can certainly use all the local support we can get. But we’re not fighting Turkmenistan. If we drop a squad in there, aren’t we stirring up more trouble rather than trying to contain trouble? We should try to get some kind of cooperation from the Turkmenis — if that’s even possible.”
Patrick thought for another moment; then: “Then why not ask the guy in charge?” he remarked. He picked up the phone and spoke, “Duty Officer, call President Jalaluddin Turabi in Ashkhabad, Turkmenistan. Private line.”
“Yes, General McLanahan,” the computerized ever-present voice of Dreamland’s virtual information and access service responded. “Please stand by.” Patrick hung up the phone.
“Assuming he knows anything,” Dave said. “He may be the president, but the Russians still have their boots on his neck pretty well.”
“We’ll find out.” A few minutes later the phone rang, and Patrick picked it up. “General McLanahan.”
“This is Rejep Aydogdijev, assistant deputy chief of staff to President Turabi of Turkmenistan,” a heavily accented voice said in halting English. “All communications with the president from overseas must originate from our embassy in Washington. Good night.” And the call was abruptly terminated.
“Ever get tired of being hung up on, Muck?” Dave deadpanned.
“Yes — but hopefully this won’t be one of them,” Patrick said calmly. He surfed a bit around the Internet, mostly on sites regarding the Qagev dynasty of Iran and its surviving members. “Where’s Hal?”
Dave summoned Hal Briggs to the command center via the “Duty Officer. What do you have in mind, Muck?” he asked after Hal acknowledged the order.
“It depends on what Jalaluddin says.”
“You going to call the State Department and ask…?”
Just then the phone beeped. Patrick smiled, shook his head, held up a finger, and spoke: “McLanahan here.” He noted the line was secure — he must have been working late in the office.
“My old friend the troublemaker,” Jalaluddin Turabi greeted him. “I hope you and your son are well.”
“We are very well, Jala,” Patrick replied. “How is your new wife?”
“She drinks like a Russian, spends money like a Saudi — but fortunately makes love like a Californian. She has already honored me with two healthy sons.”