“Congratulations.”
“Why do you call, my friend?”
“I want to ask about a certain incident in the Tolkuchka Bazaar yesterday. I’ll ask plainly — did the Iranians capture an Iranian princess and her family?”
Patrick heard a loud commotion in the background — it was Turabi, obviously chastising someone, loudly trying to chase them out of earshot. A few moments later: “So. Are your eyes on the ground or still in the sky?”
“In the sky — for now.”
“We see your big space station over us almost every night now, and I tell my men, the Americans will be critiquing everyone’s lovemaking skills, so be diligent,” Turabi said with a laugh. “Well, my friend, all of your eyes are very good — as I well know. Yes, it is true: the Shahdokht Azar Assiyeh Qagev, the youngest daughter of the surviving heir to the Qagev royal dynasty, was captured in the bazaar shortly after she arrived from a flight from Canada via Istanbul.”
“I thought all the king’s children were murdered by the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”
“Apparently not, my friend.”
“The Iranians have her?”
“One of my military police battalion commanders, more loyal to the Iranians than to their own people — or paid off better — assisted the deputy chief of mission Fattah to place several pro-monarchy loyalists under surveillance and capture them once they were found,” Turabi said. “But it was only the daughter, Azar, not the mother and father. The daughter was accompanied by two bodyguards. I believe they were taken to the federal jail here in the capital.”
“I would rather not assault your jail, Jala,” Patrick said, “so if it’s possible to sneak her out, I can snatch her. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” Turabi said. “I can advise you when we have her, and then you can, as you put it, ‘snatch’ her.”
“Thank you, Jala. You can loudly and publicly protest any actions that may take place in your country in the next few days,” Patrick said.
“That I can do very easily, my friend — you can be assured of that,” Turabi said. “We have spoken long enough, and I do not want to hear any more anyway. Peace be with you, my friend.” And the connection was broken.
Hal Briggs and Chris Wohl returned to the command center when Patrick hung up, and Hal had someone with him that Patrick did not recognize. “Sir, I’d like to introduce you to Captain Charlie Turlock,” Hal said.
Patrick got to his feet, confusion evident in his face. “Charlie Turlock?” The more confused he looked the broader the smile became on Hal’s face.
“Problem, sir?” Turlock asked.
Patrick glanced at Hal’s smile, nodded knowingly, and shook Turlock’s hand. “Sorry, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs failed to inform me that Charlie Turlock was a woman. Is that your real name, a nickname, or a call-sign?”
“Unfortunately ’Charlie’ is my real first name, sir,” the newcomer replied. “My dad wanted a son and thought I’d need a boy’s name to make it in the world, and out of respect for him I never changed it.”
“And I suppose you like seeing the confused faces of the men who make incorrect assumptions about you and don’t do their homework.”
Turlock smiled. “Something like that, sir.”
“I’ll deal with General Briggs later. Welcome to Dreamland.”
“Thank you, sir,” Charlie said. She was a little over average height, with strawberry-blond hair pulled up and off her shoulders, revealing a long, graceful, athletically tanned neck. Other than her dancing green eyes it was hard to make out any distinguishing features about her, dressed as she was in her army combat uniform, but the one thing Patrick did notice was her supreme air of confidence. Most junior officers and enlisted personnel withered and shriveled in the presence of so many stars and stripes in one room, but Turlock definitely wasn’t one of them. “I’ve heard all the stories and rumors about this place, and I’ve always wanted to visit. I assume there’s a lot more to this place than what you see when you drive on post?”
“Sure is, Captain,” Patrick said. “General Briggs will show you around. I’m looking forward to seeing a demonstration of your Cybernetic Infantry Devices. I’ve seen their aftermath on TV, of course, but I’d like to get an up-close and personal tour.”
“The CID units, sir?” Charlie asked, confused. “I assumed you were interested in the National Guard’s next-generation airships — that’s what I’m prepared to demonstrate for you.”
“I am, Charlie, but my primary interest right now is the CID units,” Patrick said.
“I don’t have access to any of the CID units any more,” Charlie admitted. “The program was canceled and I’ve since lost track of the CIDs. I don’t even know if the Infantry Transformational Battlelab at Fort Polk assigned anyone else to the project — I wouldn’t even know whom to refer you to.”
“We know all about the CID program — in fact, we bought it,” Patrick said.
“You bought the Cybernetic Infantry Device program? All of it?”
“It seems the Army was rather anxious to get rid of the four CID units they had. They didn’t let them go cheaply, but they gave us everything — almost your entire lab at Fort Polk. The units, your computers, files, and equipment are in your new facility. We don’t have anything plugged in or set up, but we have guys ready to help you, and we can get more technical or specialized help fairly quickly.”
“‘Help me?’ Help me do what, sir?”
“Help you set up your lab here at Dreamland and develop them for the Air Battle Force ground forces, under my command,” Hal Briggs said.
“What does the Air Force want with manned robots?”
“The Air Battle Force combines both air and ground strike forces into one integrated unit, Charlie,” Hal said. “Our specialty is sending small, high-tech, highly mobile forces anywhere in the world in less than a day, and we’re working on technology that will get them there even quicker.”
“Like a Marine Recon force?” Charlie asked, looking at Chris Wohl.
“Think half the size, three times the speed, and four times the firepower,” Hal said. “But your CID units have capabilities that even our Tin Men don’t have.”
“‘Tin Men’?”
“Our version of CID,” Dave said. “Not as armored or strong as CID, but ten times as capable as an infantry soldier in the field.”
“You’re offering me a job out here?”
“Your official base of operations will be Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base up in northern Nevada,” Patrick said, “but you’ll test and evaluate your systems down here in Dreamland. You’ll be deployed quite often with the Air Battle Force and with other agencies. If you don’t mind moving out to the high desert and working in a place where everything you do is monitored twenty-four-seven, we’d be thrilled to have you.”
“Moving to Vegas sounds cool, sir — the monitoring thing, not so cool,” Charlie admitted. “Is that necessary?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Patrick said. “You get used to it. Dave, Hal, and I have all been wired for sound for almost twenty years.”
“‘Wired for sound…?’”
“I can’t get into details yet,” Patrick said. “Hal can explain more after the necessary waivers and disclosures are signed. If you don’t agree it’s the place for you, we’ll send you back to the Guard training center in Los Alamitos, and we’ll get to work on the CIDs ourselves.”
That seemed to change Charlie’s attitude. “Frankly, sir, I’d rather the CIDs stayed in storage than have anyone else messing with them,” she said. “I’ll listen to General Briggs…I can’t promise you anything else.”
“I’ll tell you right now up front, it’s not the kind of posting you can just walk away from in a year or two,” Patrick warned her. “It’s one of those lifelong commitments that go way beyond just getting a security clearance and special access. It’s intense. It’ll affect you and everyone you come in contact with for the rest of your life.”