Date: 2024-05-22T04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Theogony Books

Never Again

Book One of Blood and Armor

By

Bill Fawcett

PUBLISHED BY: Theogony Books

Copyright © 2024 Bill Fawcett & Associates Inc.

All Rights Reserved

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License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

* * * * *

In memory of David Drake.

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Cover Design by J Caleb Design.

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Contents

Chapter 1: 14 October, Year 9

Chapter 2: 15 October, Year 9

Chapter 3: 19 October, Year 9

Chapter 4: 22 October, Year 9

Chapter 5: 26 October, Year 9

Chapter 6: 19 November, Year 9

Chapter 7: 21 November, Year 9

Chapter 8: 23 November, Year 9

Chapter 9: 24 November, Year 9

Chapter 10: 27 December, Year 9

Chapter 11: 28 December, Year 9

Chapter 12: 5 January, Year 10

Chapter 13: 8 January, Year 10

Chapter 14: 11 January, Year 10

Chapter 15: 6 February, Year 10

Chapter 16: 17 March, Year 10

Chapter 17: 19 March, Year 10

Chapter 18: 22 March, Year 10

Chapter 19: 23 March, Year 10

Chapter 20: 24 March, Year 10

Chapter 21: 25 March, Year 10

Chapter 22: 26 March, Year 10

Chapter 23: 27 March, Year 10

Chapter 24: 28 March, Year 10

Chapter 25: 29 March, Year 10

Chapter 26: 30 March, Year 10

Chapter 27: 31 March, Year 10

Chapter 28: 1 April, Year 10

Epilogue

About the Author

Excerpt from Book One of Ashes of Entecea:

Excerpt from Book One of The Last Marines:

Excerpt from Book One of The Prince of Britannia Saga:

Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle:

* * * * *

Chapter 1: 14 October, Year 9

Field Headquarters Compound

1st Armored Battalion

Army of the Kurdish Republic

Fifty Miles from the Syrian Border, Raqqa Sector

The increasing volume of the clustered rumbles from their own long range artillery fire warned Colonel Timo Sheen, commander of the Kurdish Republic’s 1st (and only) Armored Battalion, that the Syrian armored column was closing fast. His first instinct was to start his tanks moving, but they’d spent days digging into this position. His refurbished Abrams would be outnumbered three to one. Timo’s hope was that their prepared positions and a few surprises would make up for the difference in numbers. Many good men and women had died in the last three days, stripping away most of the approaching heavy tanks’ infantry support. The jets from both sides had fought themselves out of the sky. Only a few high contrails could be seen. Soon, too many of the men and women he’d trained, who’d become his friends, would be lost to the inevitable reality of warfare. Good soldiers die.

The Kurdish national militia—now army—the Peshmerga, had been defending the Kurdish people for decades, long before they’d officially had their own country. Timo was keenly aware of his young nation’s tenuous position as he made his way from the comm tent to the brigade HQ. His blue eyes flashed in sharp contrast to his pale skin and black hair. Timo’s smooth-shaven face didn’t show the wear of his 35 years yet.

Hurrying to the half-buried command tent, he met the eyes of the venerable Sergeant Major Rafiq Jaziri, who was sitting on a stool by an open flap with an American-made M4 carbine across his lap. Three more ammo magazines and a brace of grenades hung from the old man’s vest, even though their weight threatened to drag him down by his skinny shoulders. The noncom’s eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, but Timo could see martial fire still burning there. He clapped the man, who’d been his dead father’s loyal first sergeant for nearly forty years, on the shoulder. “Keep a good watch, Sergeant Major,” he said.

Jaziri nodded and spat a pistachio shell. “Not getting past me, Colonel,” he declared in the voice of a much younger man.

Entering the tent next to the drone stations, Timo ducked under the fold of canvas into the semi-darkness of the large enclosure. The day was cool, but the air in the tent was thick and stiflingly hot. The first thing he noticed was the familiar odor of sweat, fear, and ozone. Inside, men were moving with purpose. He felt the crackling energy of these veteran soldiers, who were preparing once again to go to war.

He found General Goran Helgurd at the map table. The division commander, flanked by his intelligence and operations officers, looked up, eyebrows raised in silent query as Timo approached. Timo managed a slight smile for his mentor and friend. The general nodded. He knew how concerned the armored commander was about his distant family. There’d been warnings that the Iranians were growing concerned about the massive exodus of non-Kurds from their failing state. Iranian concern tended to manifest itself violently.

“I reached her an hour ago,” the colonel replied to the unspoken question as he walked up. His wife and son were on the far side of the Republic, coordinating the housing for a new surge of Iranian refugees. “Supplies are coming in.” Concern entered his voice, “They have no real military protection. I had to move everything here when they almost broke through at Byrin, and what remained is off reacting to an incursion at the Bakhtara Wind Farm. There’s a lot of movement on some Iranian Air bases.” His voice broke; saying it made it all feel wrong. Ever since the first tenuous separation of the Kurds from Syria and Iran’s client state, Iraq, the religious dictators of Iran had resented and feared the Kurds. As the young Kurdish nation thrived next to their failing theocracy, the mullah’s resentment had turned to hatred.

Syria’s desire to destroy the KR was more direct, since more than half of their new nation had once been part of Syria. Once the Peshmerga had liberated the land from Daesh—known as ISIL to much of the world—they’d simply not given it back, to the great relief of all the area’s residents.

“Then we’d better finish up here and get over there to give them some protection,” Helgurd said bluntly. He gestured to the map, where several flags stretched out in a line from the Syrian city of Raqqa to the KR border. “We’ve stopped every other probe along the border, but they held their armor back. Still, we have reason to believe they may be overconfident. The dictator’s grandson is in nominal command there.” He finished gesturing toward the approaching enemy. The general then turned to another man, a thin, graying civilian in combat boots, a canvas jacket, and trousers, topped by a dusty cowboy hat. “Mr. Tang?”

“Thank you, General,” Roger Tang replied, speaking Kurdish with a Midwestern American accent. “And Colonel,” he greeted Timo with a nervous nod, before proceeding. “We’ve managed to get four of the new Tang Industries railguns into position.” His company had innovated a new design that was so efficient, even the tabletop model he’d shown them could penetrate two inches of armor. The much larger guns were on the heights, about three miles back from the road on the north slope. “All the battery packs stand at full power, and each gun should be capable of firing a half dozen rounds before recharging. They have limited traverse. You just need to draw the enemy armor into their killing zone.”

“I know the guns are well hidden,” Timo acknowledged. “What about the solar panels—would they be spotted by a recon drone?” The railguns were new, even to the advanced Western armies. Tang Industries had spent a decade developing smaller prototypes. Timo had seen the weapons during field testing, and he’d been impressed by their incredibly high accuracy and projectile velocity.

They’d never been used in battle. A quarter the size of those the US Navy had used, the railguns had one drawback—each gun was powered by an array of batteries, and the batteries were charged by large, flexible solar panels laid out on the ground. The panels he’d seen at the test site would’ve been visible to even a low-resolution drone camera at a dozen miles.

“We have them covered with light tarps, same color as the ground. We don’t need to draw power yet—they’re fully charged, as I said—and by the time we pull the tarps off, the Syrians should have plenty of other things to worry about.”

“Stay under cover yourself,” the colonel admonished the businessman, his expression showing concern for his friend, but also recognizing his import to the Republic. Tall and rangy, Roger Tang was an American industrialist and entrepreneur whose wealth extended into multiple billions of dollars. He’d made his fortune with his unique and efficient designs for energy storage, notably the most powerful portable batteries ever known. Every phone in the world used them. His further enterprises, involving the widespread use of solar energy collection, had propelled the power storage industry two full generations into the future. His wealth had helped propel the landlocked republic to prosperity.

“And your initial trip line?” General Helgurd asked Timo. “All is in place?”

“My men are already well hidden. They’ll fall back as soon as they fire and lead the enemy against the main body.”

“How many M1s do you have operational?” the general asked. The M1A2 Abrams tanks, provided to the Kurds courtesy of the Americans, and paid for by the Kurds’ discovery of one of the world’s largest deposits of rare earths, were the flagships of the KR’s small, armored force. But spare parts, as always, were scarce.

“I’ve got fifteen of them on the main line—all we have,” Timo replied. “There are twice that many Bradleys in the 2nd Battalion, with a few more in reserve. You’ll order them forward when the initial impetus is broken, General, correct?”

“I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” the general replied grimly. Timo remembered Helgurd had lost a son in the final attacks against Daesh in Raqqa, when his Kurdish militia had led the charge in wiping out the last stronghold of the short-lived caliphate, only to be driven out of the city by a Syrian backstab. Though the main enemy had been Sunni fundamentalists, the general had shown no difficulty in transferring his animus to the Syrians who now held the ruins of the once-thriving city.

“Please tell me you’ll watch the attack from headquarters!” Timo urged. “There’s no need for our commanding general to lead a charge!”

Helgurd turned back the map, and after a minute, looked across the table.

The two Kurdish commanders exchanged a brief, emotional look. Timo had been a mere lieutenant when Colonel Helgurd had first taken an interest in him. The older officer had since been unstinting in both his professional and personal support. The two soldiers, working together, had done most of the heavy lifting as the Army of the Kurdish Republic had taken shape.

Helgurd waved him off—not the answer the colonel wanted, but he knew the old soldier too well to press the point.

“What do we know of the enemy at our front?” he asked instead.

General Helgurd turned to look at a nearby video station, where several sergeants operated joysticks and scrutinized a multitude of high-def screens. One of them, a female Peshmerga with twenty years of experience, stood to report. “We’ve got them in view from at least three drones. They have two companies of T-82s advancing in the lead, one to either side of the road. The main punch, a company of T-95s, is charging right up the road, about two kilometers behind the 82s. Only a handful of APCs.”

There was a moment’s silence. Every man at the command table knew Timo’s KR 1st Armored Battalion was roughly equivalent to just one of those three enemy companies in both number and quality of tanks. The young officer felt their tension. “One Kurd to three Syrians,” he said as cheerfully as he could muster leaving for his command tank. “I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards.”

* * *

The clouds of dust raised by the Russian-made tanks billowed across the western sky, dimming the late afternoon sun to a dirty haze. Thanks to UN air interdiction, neither side had air support, but the storm of Russian-built armor was a formidable force all by itself. As soon as the heavy tanks rolled into range—about a thousand meters—the Kurdish light tanks fired a volley of anti-tank rounds, supported by rockets launched from the scout vehicles. The impacts of these missiles raised some brief sparks of light, flames, and flashes among the attackers, but the oncoming avalanche of metal showed no signs of slowing.

To Timo, standing on his tank’s hull, it was impossible to discern through his binoculars if any of the enemy tanks had been disabled by that initial volley. Immediately after firing, the Kurdish screening force broke from cover, falling back toward the main body. That retreat raised even more dust, masking the entire battlefield from ground-level observation.

The colonel’s command tank sat in a hull down position just behind the slight rise, only the flat turret and lethal main gun poking above the enemy’s horizon. Hidden two hundred meters back were the missile-armed Bradleys.

“Any news?” Timo asked after switching from his tank’s frequency to the command one.

“One or two of them are burning after the first volley,” an unknown officer replied.

Helgurd came on, “Didn’t slow them any, but we didn’t expect it to. Your screening force made a clean getaway, no casualties.”

“Also as expected,” Tim acknowledged, belying his relief. His men had been personally trained in field camouflage by Rafiq Jaziri himself, but all the training in the world couldn’t render a man or vehicle proof against a lucky shot. “They’re still coming, then?”

“If anything, they picked up the pace,” General Helgurd said. “Taking the bait, just like you expected.”

“What can your gun crews see?” he asked Tang, who was studying a different set of vidscreens.

“I suspect dust, mainly, even on infrared,” the American replied from his position high above the battlefield. “But each rail has an advanced IR tracker. All four report picking up strong heat signatures. Too many to count. There’ll be no shortage of targets. We’ve got the trigger line marked. Looks like six or eight minutes until they reach it.”

“Time for me to mount up, then. We’ll see how they like the main event.”

“Timo, my son, take good care,” Helgurd said in warm tones. The general wasn’t Timo’s father—Captain Randall Sheen, United States Army, had died near Fallujah in 2005—but the highest-ranking officer in the Kurdish Army had been Timo’s mentor, guide, and adviser for most of his life.

“I will, sir,” the colonel pledged. “They won’t stand on one acre of Kurdish soil when this day is done.”

“Remember, wait for the railguns to fire. That’s the cue for your heavies,” Helgurd reminded him unnecessarily.

“Please, sir,” the colonel pleaded, “you’re needed here. Your Bradley crews know what they’re doing—let them do it without worrying about you.”

“Do you think I’m too old for war?” The general’s voice was gravid with frost.

Timo, knowing the question was rhetorical, held his tongue. Two minutes later, Timo scrambled into the turret of his Abrams tank, headphones tuned to the platoon frequency, and eyes fastened to the view scope. Inside the tank, he watched over the gunner’s shoulder. The crosshatch of the targeting image wavered across the approaching wall of dust as he slowly traversed the turret from right to left, tracking a short arc before swinging back. He activated the gun-sight radar, which showed blurry images of solid objects moving through the haze.

“Dimen? Karwan?” he said to his gunner and loader through the intercom. “Ready with the ‘fins?’”

“All set, Colonel.” Dimen’s voice cracked from the tension, but Timo could see his hand steady on the targeting grip. Barely eighteen years old, Dimen had been training for more than a year; he was ready to face his first battle. The loader, Karwan, was a little older. He calmly went about assembling the “fin,” which is what the Kurdish tankers called the APFSDS—the armor-piercing, fin-stabilized, discarding-sabot projectile that could destroy any tank on the planet with a solid hit.

“We’re waiting on the railguns,” Timo reminded his crew. “When they engage, we’ll shoot from here first, then fire and move on my order.”

His driver, Redan, had fifteen years’ experience and just grunted.

“Roger,” the other two crewmen replied in chorus.

The first rank of retreating vehicles came into view of the naked eye now. These were the light tanks and scout vehicles of the Kurds’ first line. They raced across the flat desert in a weaving pattern. Occasional shells burst around them, but Timo saw no direct hits. Once the light vehicles passed a preset line, they wheeled precisely around like a well-trained troop of horse cavalry—of which in many ways they were the direct descendants. Each vehicle quickly tucked into a shallow, prepared firing pit, screened from the enemy’s view by piles of brush and other debris.

Now heavier, more ominous shapes solidified in the rolling wall of dust. Big, flat tanks rolled forward, smashing over scrub trees, crunching right through the brick wall marking the boundary of an old farm. These were T-82s, relics of the Soviet Union’s Cold War army, each one still a powerful armored fighting vehicle. Thickly armored, they were immune to a wide array of battlefield attacks. The T-82s came on fast, their turbine engines barely audible as they approached Timo’s position.

The first Syrian tanks crossed the trigger line. Roger Tang’s four railguns fired simultaneously, and three squat tanks erupted into blasts of fire and boiling black smoke. The guns were eerily soundless and well hidden, revealed by neither smoke nor more than a brief muzzle flash. The attacks were followed by sonic booms that cracked across the field in the wake of the supersonic rounds. The railguns didn’t rely on explosive shells for ammunition—instead, each hurled a depleted uranium projectile, using electrical power to accelerate the missile’s velocity well in excess of seven thousand kilometers an hour. The spinning rods of metal traveled so fast that the gunners didn’t even have to lead their targets, and they hit so hard, they melted and liquefied the metal of the T-82s’ turrets and hulls as they slammed through, immolating everything inside each target struck.

Drones had been mostly grounded by ECM technology, but at short ranges, they could still be effective. A dozen Peshmerga infantry armed with mortar-launched drones popped up from the disguised holes they’d dug the day before as the Syrian tanks passed by and fired. Most were quickly killed by the infantry following the enemy armor. The winged drones flew high, then dived with deadly effect. Two penetrated the thinner top armor of the old Russian tanks, sending both up with explosive fury.

Timo wasted no time admiring the lethal handiwork. Even as the railgunners reloaded and powered up for the next volley, he fixed the crosshairs of his targeting scope on one of the T-82s that seemed to be breaking out ahead of its comrades.

“Fire!” he barked, and Dimen hit the trigger while the word still echoed through the intercom. The tank lurched slightly from the recoil, and Timo was back on the link, this time to Zagros, the driver. “Reverse, right twenty meters!” There was no time to watch the effect of their fire.

The tank backed smoothly out of the firing pit, pivoting like a dancer, and rolling along behind the low embankment. As it came to rest the prescribed distance away, a high explosive blast destroyed the earthen breastwork where the command tank had originally lurked. Timo grimly noted the speed and accuracy of the enemy’s return fire—the Syrians had been at war for a long time, too. Well-trained and experienced crews manned the enemy tanks.

The front of the Syrians’ attacking formation broke into a fragmented wave of burning tanks, sparkling weaponry, and rapid maneuvers. He could see the T-82 they’d fired at burning. Tracks crunched over the ground, swinging the armored hulls this way and that, while turrets spun briefly and then stabilized as gunners tracked targets. Missiles rose, and shells were fired from the light tanks still hidden from view. More explosions followed along the defensive front, and Timo knew that some of his light scouting vehicles were getting pounded mercilessly by the big T-82s’ 120mm guns.

The Abrams settled into firing position, the turret swiveled ninety degrees to port, and Timo lined up on a target. Dimen sent another AP round into the fray, but this time the target rolled onward—the shot was either a miss, or a ricochet off the T-82’s thick reactive armor.

Again, the command tank glided on, smooth and quiet with the turbine powering the Abrams along on its suspension of torsion bars and rotary shock absorbers. The little elevation that had sheltered them at the start of the battle petered out after fifty or sixty meters, and Timo ordered a hard left turn, bringing the tank once again full forward against the Syrians.

It was impossible to assess the effect of the railguns in the smoky chaos of the battlefield, but after a minute, Timo’s radio crackled with a report from Tang’s command crew: “Rail charges depleted, all four batteries. Recharging under way.”

Field tests had shown that the guns, which required huge amounts of electricity to operate, required at least twenty or thirty minutes to fully recharge—and that was in bright sunlight. Timo had no idea how much the smoke-filled skies would impede the large solar panels’ ability to turn light into power.

Dozens of enemy tanks were blazing wrecks by now, but an equal number, or more, still rolled forward. At some point, the T-95s had joined the fighting. They were about to swarm through the advance line, where the light tanks and scout vehicles huddled behind now insufficient cover.

“Let’s hit them with the heavies,” Timo barked over his battalion frequency. “Heavy company advance!”

All fifteen Abrams tanks surged forward out of the smoky shambles of their original position. The huge tanks were low, flat, and remarkably fast, streaking like racing autos toward the disrupted enemy line and leaving plumes of churning dust in their wakes. A complicated system of gyroscopes and computer-controlled stabilization allowed their cannons to fire accurately, even at speed, and the 120mm smoothbore cannons continually spat lethal rounds at the enemy tanks. Through his viewfinder Timo watched several more T-82s and a T-95 burst into flames or stagger and lurch to a halt.

The Kurdish tanks roared into the face of the broken enemy formation. The defending light tanks of the front row emerged from their firing pits to shoot into the more vulnerable flanks and rears of the Syrians after the attackers passed them by. Their rockets flashed, knocking off tracks and sometimes even penetrating enough to disable even the big T-82s.

As the line of Abrams rushed closer, Timo sensed the hesitancy in the enemy’s advance—more than half of the Russian-made tanks in view were burning or otherwise disabled. Those still mobile spun and maneuvered as the smaller vehicles attacked, peppering them with rounds and rockets, every bit as annoying as hornets swarming around a gardener’s head.

Then the main battle tanks of Timo’s company were among the shattered Syrian formations. Turrets whirled and spun, the huge Rheinmetall smoothbore cannons firing at ranges of barely a hundred meters—point-blank, for all intents and purposes. The surviving T-82s reversed, scrambling for traction, swerving around the burning hulks of their fellow tankers, trying to back out of the hell that had engulfed them.

A blast rocked Timo’s tank so hard that he feared they’d taken a direct hit. Only when he shook his head clear and swept the viewfinder around the battlefield did he see the cause—another Kurdish tank, one of the Abrams, blazed furiously nearby, destroyed. A round with immense power must have hit just where the two parts joined and had sheared the turret right off its hull. Its crew dead, the tank body rolled forward like a rudderless boat until its momentum expired.

More tanks were pressing into the melee now, and through the murk, Timo saw these were larger, more lethal-looking than even the massive T-82s. He knew on an intellectual level that the T-95, the most modern tank in the Syrian inventory, was larger, faster, and more heavily armed than any other armored fighting vehicle on this battlefield. The barrel jutting from the turret had a bore of more than 150mm and was so long that it looked like it belonged in some naval warship’s main gun battery. The tank itself was flat, low to the ground—and crazily, unbelievably fast.

Several of them swept by Timo’s command tank with an effect like driving past oncoming traffic on a high-speed highway. The huge guns belched death, and in the space of one quick scan, the colonel saw two more of his precious Abrams knocked out—one engulfed in flames, the other canting wildly to the side as the entire starboard track system was blown to pieces. He saw three crewmen tumble out of the hatch of the disabled tank, then watched in awe as the turret swung around to bring its main gun in line for a broadside at one of the T-95s. Clearly, the tank gunner remained at his post. The barrel belched, and the round struck home, drawing a gout of flame from the Syrian tank. Then the stricken Abrams and its target both exploded in a violent burst of fire and smoke.

For interminable moments, the melee raged across the desert as engines roared, guns bellowed, and metal and flesh shrieked against the cruel onslaught of powerful, deadly impacts. Timo lined up a flank shot against a T-95 and shouted exultantly as Dimen placed the round right where the barrel joined the turret. The racing behemoth came to a stop as suddenly as a charging bear shot in the brain. At least a few of his M1s still survived, and the icy-calm veteran Kurdish tankers held their own against the swarming vehicles of the enemy.

The battle of the heavy tanks swirled into a violent dance as the T-95s spun and wheeled, attempting to take the Kurds in the rear; the remaining Abrams crews reacted with instinctive dexterity, spinning about themselves. The huge tanks on both sides raced back and forth, stopping and spinning through desperate evasive maneuvers.

“Stay here!” Timo hissed to himself as his crew knocked out another T-95. His worst fear was that the Syrian heavies would leave the skirmish behind and plunge into the Kurdish rear, where they could wreak untold havoc.

Abruptly a new wave of lethal rounds smacked into the whirling tanks, knocking out a pair of T-95s on either side of Timo’s Abrams. He guessed the railguns must have recharged, and the rhythmic whoomp of sonic booms confirmed that hunch. A new wave of smaller guns chattered into the mix, and he saw that the Kurdish light tanks had roared into the melee. The Peshmerga gunners fired at the Syrian heavy tanks with reckless abandon.

Another T-95 emerged from the dust, shockingly close. The Abrams turret spun, and another round spat from the muzzle of the huge main gun. This one struck an armored plate on the enemy tank’s hull and ricocheted into the air. By the time Karwan slammed another round into the breach, the Syrian tank had raced out of sight toward the Kurdish rear echelon.

* * *

Timo was about to give chase when the colonel’s Abrams rocked hard under a forceful impact. The tank slewed hard to the left, and Zagros cursed over the intercom. “We’ve lost the left track, sir!”

“We’ll shoot from where we sit, then!” Timo declared. “Dimen, Karwan—another AT round!” He swept the viewfinder across the land to the rear and caught a glimpse of the lone T-95 charging toward the supply depot, but before he could line up a shot, the huge enemy tank was lost to sight behind several smaller Kurdish vehicles. Their APCs, Bradleys, and other armored personnel carriers now rolled into the fight. Some of them were armed with anti-tank rocket launchers, and the missiles blazed toward the fight with fresh fury—but none of them had the armor to stand up to the punch from a main battle tank, much less a T-95.

Timo’s Rheinmetall barrel spat one more projectile into the enemy ranks, this one knocking out the engine of a T-82 that had been trying to limp off the field. The three Syrians emerged, hands raised, and were quickly surrounded by Kurdish soldiers swarming out of the Bradleys. Major explosions erupted to the rear, and Timo remembered the Syrian T-95 that had rolled past—he feared it was doing terrible damage, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

More rockets flashed from the distance, converging on a gigantic target—the free-rolling T-95 behind them. A momentary gust of wind whisked the dust out of the air, and Timo watched as three Bradleys swarmed toward the Syrian. Two of the fast, nimble APCs separated to target the tank from both sides, while the third courageously roared straight toward the massive 150mm gun. That gun belched a round that hit the Bradley squarely in the hull, tearing through the light armor and leaving a ruined wreck in its wake. The crew must have been instantly torn apart. Seconds later, anti-tank rockets struck the T-95 from both sides, finally bringing the rampaging monster to a burning halt.

The Syrian tanks that could still move were now pulling back; they reversed away from the Kurds, turrets swiveled 180 degrees to fire at their pursuers as they retreated. Another shell caromed off Timo’s turret without exploding, and then the enemy survivors fled the field.

It was only when he emerged to check the status of his tanks—less than half remained—that Timo got word. Sergeant Jaziri, his face creased by decades of war, approached the colonel with tears in his eyes, and Timo knew without being told.

The destroyed Bradley had carried General Helgurd. Now it was a shattered hulk, strewn in pieces over the dusty terrain. Timo Sheen’s mind reeled with the certain knowledge that his mentor, his second father, was gone forever.

* * *

Field Hospital

1st Armored Battalion

Army of the Kurdish Republic

Raqqa Sector

What little remained of General Helgurd, no longer a figure of command, lay beside nearly a hundred of his fellow Kurds in the hastily assembled outdoor morgue. The air smelled of cordite, blood, and soot. Timo’s shoulders sagged as he looked down at the once proud face, a visage now aged and lifeless. As he grieved for the loss of his second father, Timo’s eyes watered from the acrid air and more.

Helgurd had been not only his mentor, but the one man who’d made the crushing burden of the command they’d shared bearable. Still, he remained aware that the rest of his Peshmerga shared a similar, if less direct, sense of loss. The general had been the most revered soldier in the Army of the Kurdish Republic, and all the soldiers had to be wondering what the future held for them and for their fledgling nation.

Timo spent a few more seconds in quiet mourning beside the broken body. He didn’t even wonder at the motivation that had driven the senior officer to ride into battle with men and women young enough to be his grandchildren. He’d never let others face danger unless he stood alongside his command. Timo completely understood, even as he hated the waste and his loss.

He was painfully aware that even more veteran Peshmerga lay on tables or cots in the nearby hospital tent as the harried medical staff, triage completed, worked to save lives, eyes, limbs, and other precious human parts.

He walked away as they began sealing the body bags, noticing every soldier watching him, acutely aware that he now commanded all the Kurdish troops on the Syrian frontier. There was nothing he could say. Timo left the morgue and started into the recovery tent to visit the wounded.

Before he entered the big canvas shelter, he heard the roaring of an engine and turned to see a battered, doorless Humvee, Sergeant Major Jaziri at the wheel, approaching at a nearly reckless speed. He hurried over to the vehicle as the elderly NCO slewed to a stop in a cloud of dust and spraying pebbles.

“What is it, Rafi?” Timo demanded. “Are the Syrians coming back for more?”

“No, Colonel—it’s news from—from Mahabad—” The old soldier could barely spit out the words.

The horrified look on Jaziri’s face alarmed Timo more than his words. He tumbled into the Humvee’s passenger seat, and the sergeant major immediately accelerated toward the comm tent. “What have you heard?” he demanded, holding on as the speeding vehicle skidded around a turn and blasted past 60, then 80 kilometers per hour on the bumpy dirt track.

“A short message came through, before the link was broken. The Iranians are attacking Mahabad.”

“Birsin! Jochi! Are they all right?” Timo could think of nothing but the fate of his wife and son, the danger they might be facing.

The old sergeant shook his head, face distorted by anguish. “I don’t know, sir! The connection was broken. Maybe they’ve gotten it back!”

But that hope was dashed when Timo charged into the comm tent to find the sergeant manning the communications link striving, and failing, to bring up any signal from the Red Crescent camp in Mahabad.

“What did you see? What happened?” the frantic officer demanded.

“Just this, sir,” the technician replied, her tone maddeningly calm. “It was recorded less than ten minutes ago.” She clicked the mouse, and the image solidified into Birsan’s face. In the picture, instead of the serene and loving expression of farewell she’d worn at the close of her last message, her face was knotted by fear.

“Timo! They’re coming—the mullahs have sent their killers in by helicopter. The whole camp is under attack—they fired rockets into the hospital, into the tent camp. We flew the Red Crescent banner marking the building as a place of healing, and they still tried to blow it to pieces!”

The tank commander felt sick to his stomach, silently pleading with his wife to flee—wishing she’d fled already, knowing the recorded scene had already played out in real life. Yet he knew her, knew she’d stay at her post as long as she felt she could do some good.

“Jochi?” he gasped, his voice a croaking whisper. He knew she couldn’t hear him, had sent this message some minutes ago, but he couldn’t help the question. “Our son—?”

“Jochi is with me,” his wife continued in the recorded message. “We’re doing what we can for the wounded, but we have no fighting men here. I fear we will be cap—”

That was the end of the transmission, as the screen dissolved into a burst of static. “Captured” was the fear she’d tried to declare, Timo knew, but his mind seethed with an even darker terror. The mullahs in Tehran had dispatched their fanatical Revolutionary Guards against those who’d fled Iran to Mahabad. The Guard wouldn’t take prisoners. Their mission would be mass murder.

“Timo!” a deep voice barked, its American accent unmistakable. Roger Tang was there, his hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “I came here in my personal aircraft—you know, the VTOL G13. It’s waiting barely two kilometers away. At maximum speed, we can get to Mahabad in less than an hour. I’ll take you!”

The Kurdish warrior nodded his mute thanks, even as his mind reeled at the potential horrors awaiting them.

“There’s enough room, we can take two dozen Peshmerga with us,” Tang added. “I’ll get ready for takeoff—get over to the landing zone as fast as you can!” The American ran out of the tent, making for his personal SUV parked a few dozen meters away.

Timo nodded, processing the information, forcing down his fear enough to make a plan. He spotted one of his trusted young officers standing nearby. “Captain Sirvan, form a squad of picked fighters, trusted men and women, and let’s go!”

Minutes later, they were in the air.

* * *

Roger Tang owned homes in California; New York; Washington, DC; London; the Cayman Islands, Monaco, and other places. He thrived in the boardrooms of several of the most profitable corporations on the planet. The tall industrialist mixed well with rulers of countries, captains of industry, and the most glamorous A-list celebrities from every field of entertainment.

Yet he only felt really, truly alive when he was holding the controls of his personal aircraft or living in the field with his adopted people. For the last five years, he’d spent most of his time in the Kurdish Republic. As a promising young captain in the US Army Rangers, he’d worked with and befriended legions of the bold Peshmerga, the Kurdish irregulars who’d gone to war against Saddam Hussein, Al Qaeda, Daesh, and then the mullahs of Iran.

He admired the doughty independence and courage—not to mention, the battlefield ferocity—of these male and female fighters. When the Kurds had formed their own country, Tang had resolved to do whatever he could to help the new nation survive and flourish, even locating a major production plant and research center in their capital city of Kirkuk.

He also found the Kurds, most notably General Helgurd and Colonel Sheen, to be willing partners in his efforts to field test his corporation’s more radical designs. One such, the railgun, had just proven to be a lethal tank killer. Now, Tang found himself at the controls of another of his unique, advanced inventions—the G13 VTOL multi-purpose aircraft—a jet he’d designed in conjunction with the Grumman Aircraft Corporation. Not only was the jet-powered machine capable of vertical take-off and landing, it was as nimble as any helicopter when rising from or descending to the ground. In the air, the “Gee One Three” could burst through the sound barrier with ease and carried enough fuel in drop tanks to fly from New York to London in a single hop.

The cabin could be configured as a luxury business jet or, as it now was, a bare-bones personnel and equipment hauler. It was capable of in-flight refueling, and though it was technically a civilian aircraft, he’d arranged to equip it with military-grade electronic countermeasures to defend against enemy missiles. General Helgurd had designated it as a reserve unit and provided the jet with a chain gun and a pod of rocket launchers—enough to provide an offensive punch, should the need arise.

Now Tang, with Timo in the right-hand seat, piloted the G13 on an eastward hop across the entire Kurdish Republic, spanning the border from the now diminished Syria to the Iranian frontier. The weather was good and the sky clear. The flight would take no more than 45 minutes. As he flew, despite his pride in the immense capabilities of his aircraft, Roger Tang was more deeply concerned with the welfare of his young friend. The billionaire had recognized Timo’s potential more than twenty years earlier and wanted to do everything he could to give the charismatic Kurd and his new country a chance, not just to succeed, but to thrive. Now he feared the latest decrepit ayatollah to get his clutches on the reins of Iranian power was about to destroy everything he’d nourished for so long.

Tang’s regular copilot, Jack Morrissey, had readily ceded the right-hand seat so Timo could sit beside the business tycoon while Morrissey monitored the plane’s systems from the third chair. Immediately upon strapping in, Timo had tried and failed to contact the Army HQ for the eastern sector of the KR frontier. For the next half hour of the flight, he sat in the copilot’s seat and glowered through the high-tech glass shielding the cockpit. He seemed utterly still, but Tang could sense him quivering, vibrating like a hot electrical node, as the young husband and father strove to contain the emotions tearing his insides apart. Timo’s hands clutched the G13’s disconnected control stick like a lifeline, though the aircraft’s live active control remained in Tang’s hands.

“Why don’t you activate the gun and rocket systems?” the American suggested—at first, to give Timo something to distract him from his consuming terror, though the idea had practical merit, as well. While he wasn’t a pilot, the Kurd was well acquainted with the combat systems in Tang’s jet. “And check out the range finding system; we don’t know what might be in the air as we get closer.”

Timo nodded and went to work, first switching the chin-mounted chain gun to live and confirming that the ammunition belt moved smoothly into the loader. The gun was capable of firing more than 1,000 rounds a minute, a veritable zip stream of projectiles that could cut a soft target—like a man or a helicopter—right in half. The officer manipulated the aiming controls, tracking through the helmet-mounted viewfinder until he was satisfied that everything worked as it should.

Next, he flipped the electronic switches that powered the rocket launchers, getting green lights on all eight of the lethal missiles. Each could track its target via a heat signature, necessary against aircraft targets, or fire on a straight trajectory to create a powerful explosion on the ground.

“What do you know about Mahabad, about the situation there?” Tang asked Timo once he’d finished. The industrialist spent most of his time in the Kurdish capital of Kirkuk and knew little of the Iranian frontier. He’d factored the city’s coordinates into his GPS, but beyond that, he might as well have been flying blind.

“It’s a small city in northwestern Iran, once an outpost on an old trading route. The population’s mostly Kurdish, but it’s drawn a large number of Persians looking to get out from under the power of the ayatollahs. It was a lawless place a few years ago—part of Iran, but virtually ignored by them. Seven years ago, the UN declared it part of the KR, and we took control of the city. Our emphasis changed from humanitarian deliveries to camps, even establishing an education system. Our people have begun to bring order. It is—” Timo’s voice broke a little “—was the main entry point for Kurds or anyone fleeing the mullahs or their collapsing economy. Tens of thousands live in the refugee camp that’s grown outside the city walls. The Red Crescent has established a large aid station and medical center on the grounds of a closed university—if I recall, it’s on the city’s east side, next to the camp. That’s where Birsin would be.”

“Terrain?”

“It’s mountainous—that’s why the refugees stop there. The next part of the route into the KR is grueling and dangerous, though we’re preparing a better road. We still can’t move the refugees out as quickly as they’re arriving. I haven’t been there in months, so no idea where to land,” Timo replied, seemingly shamed by the admission. “I know it has a large reservoir and good supply of fresh water, another reason the refugees are drawn there.”

“We’ll locate the university, and I’ll set you down there, then, okay?”

The Kurdish officer nodded. “I need to try to reach the Eastern Sector HQ and chiefs again,” Timo declared. He turned his attention to the radio, first trying to raise the KR’s military high command station near Kirkuk. It remained frustratingly silent.

Tang concentrated on controlling the flight of the high-speed aircraft, powering past the sound barrier to drag a sonic boom across the dry, rugged landscape of the Kurdish Republic. A strand of blue, the Tigris River, appeared before them and swiftly passed below; the city of Kirkuk was visible along the river, in the dusty haze to the north. Below, a carpet of small factories and new construction attested to the new nation’s economic vitality. The American was aware that Timo was conversing urgently over the radio. Eventually, the young officer clicked off the mic with an air of forced calmness.

“I just spoke to a scout platoon near the city. They’ve gotten the same report we did—an Iranian surprise attack against the refugee camp and the aid center at the university. The troops are Revolutionary Guard, at least a brigade, transported in by a fleet of helicopters—lots of transport ships supported by a few ground attack birds. We have a scout battalion in the mountains on the border, a site connected to Mahabad by a winding mountain road. They’re on the move, but still ninety kilometers from the city. We’re likely on our own when we get there.”

Tang nodded, concerned, but not surprised. He gestured to the Peshmerga sitting behind them, veterans of many bloody campaigns, all watching and waiting from the passenger compartment. “Are you sure you want to be dropped right in the middle of that?” he asked. “Maybe it would make more sense to commandeer some vehicles and come at the place overland.”

Timo shook his head. “The Red Crescent HQ is set up on the university grounds. There’ll be open space there for you to land. We’ll try to secure the position until the ground column reaches us.”

Tang kept his expression serene, hoping to conceal the sickening wave of fear that clutched his chest. He thought of the veteran fighters, men and women armed to the teeth, in the back of his aircraft and decided if any soldiers on Earth could do what Timo suggested, it was these rugged Peshmerga. The American gestured to his usual gunner and copilot, now sitting behind Timo. “Why don’t you let Jack handle the guns? I have a feeling we’re going to be putting you down in a pretty hot LZ.”

* * *

Eastern Border

Kurdish Republic

Mahabad, Iran

Islamic Azad University of Mahabad

Tang brought the G13 down to subsonic speed and dropped to just a hundred meters while he was still several dozen kilometers from Mahabad. The aircraft swept forward, banking along the course of a mountain valley, almost skimming the waters of a sinuous reservoir that gleamed incongruously blue in the landscape of dry, rocky slopes. The city, startlingly green, came into view, and a moment later, the jet streaked over neighborhoods and shops. The university was visible at the far end of the city, marked by several minarets and a dramatic, angular sculpture rising from a broad plaza. Timo tried not to focus on the many pillars of smoke rising from various locations across the city. A great fire burned to the southeast, where the tent-city of the refugees had sprawled, and smoke obscured the grounds of the university.

A fleet of transport helicopters chattered in the distance, already airborne, heading away from the city toward the southeast. He knew they weren’t retreating from the approach of a single aircraft; he had a sickening fear that they’d departed because their work was done.

“I’ll put you down there,” Tang said, pointing to the open space near the large, abstract statue on the university campus.

Timo nodded and triple-checked his M4, making sure the full magazine was firmly seated; he’d keep the safety on until he led the way out the hatch. He saw Morrissey in the cockpit, manning the controls for the chain gun, and felt the shuddering of the aircraft as Tang continued to burn off speed.

Abruptly, the plane came to a virtual stop in the air, the force of the braking flinging the Kurds hard against their seat straps. Timo felt rather than saw the wings swivel into their vertical orientation as the jets roared, holding them to a descent with the speed of a fast elevator.

They hit the ground with a solid thump, and Timo heard the chain gun open up as he released the hatch, leaped the meter or so to the ground, and rolled away from the engine exhaust, already looking for targets. They were inside the wall of the university’s broad plaza, and he scrambled to the base of the large, abstract sculpture he’d seen from the air. The cool air was full of smoke, and he heard screams of anger, terror, or pain in the distance. His Peshmerga tumbled out of the hatch behind him, spreading instinctively into a defensive ring twenty or thirty meters away from Tang’s aircraft. The massive statue nearby, as tall as a three-story building, reached out with wing-like arches that seemed to embrace the sprinting Kurds taking cover in its shadow.

Timo saw the chain gun mounted beneath the G13’s nose swivel quickly, firing at such a speed that he couldn’t make out the individual reports of the rounds—the sound was a solid riiiip, like a giant sheet being torn in half. The target of that initial burst was a huge Iranian chopper, an old American-made CH-53 Super Stallion, sitting on the ground at the far end of the main university plaza. The large machine, massive rotor still spinning, blew up in a fiery surge of burning fuel. Looking up, Timo saw two enemy helicopters in the air, a Cobra-style attack ship swooping toward Tang’s futuristic jet, and another CH-53. Two missiles flashed from the wing mounts of the industrialist’s airplane, streaking upward, then curling around nimbly to plummet at the attack choppers from above. Both enemy aircraft dropped from the air in nearly simultaneous explosions.

“Clear!” Timo shouted, waving to the American pilot when the last of his fighters had scrambled beyond the jet’s take-off blast radius. The G13 was much more vulnerable on the ground than in the air. Tang couldn’t hear him, of course, but he had a good view through the cockpit’s portside window, and the gesture was enough for the industrialist to press the throttle to maximum power. A massive cloud of dust rose in the plaza, masking the Kurds even as they huddled behind every bit of available cover. Slowly at first, but accelerating like a rocket, the VTOL jet powered into the sky, the wings smoothly rotating into flight position as it banked away. The chain gun zipped again, and a target beyond the plaza wall erupted into a pillar of flame.

Timo and his squad sprang into action, spreading out and sprinting toward the wide main entrance of the university administration building. Birsin had been there, at the aid station headquarters. The Red Crescent banner that had once hung there lay torn and ragged on the flagstones. Rounding a corner, they saw two Iranian guardsmen perched atop a pair of ladders, preparing to hang their national flag in the banner’s place; they plunged to the ground after a pair of rifle bursts.

Even with the speed of their advance, as they raced across the wide steps before the palatial building, Timo was sickeningly aware of the bodies. Dozens of them were scattered through the vast open space. Here and there, Iranians, in the helmets and dark green uniforms of the country’s Revolutionary Guard, knelt over the corpses, looting pockets and backpacks. A number of the brutes tried to turn their guns on the Kurds, but Timo’s Peshmerga picked them off with cool precision, using short bursts or single shots to conserve ammunition. Unnerved by their steady, murderous fire, most of the uniformed Iranians fled toward the gate or sought shelter in the stalls and buildings around the perimeter of the space.

A hundred or more bunched at the open gates of the university plaza, and with brutal satisfaction, Timo heard the riiiip of the chain gun and saw dozens fall as Tang’s aircraft swept past on a strafing run. By then, the first of his fighters were through the building’s wide doors, and Timo followed. More bodies—all of them civilians in Western, Persian, and Arabic dress—lay scattered through the vestibule, and his chest tightened in horror as he realized this was where his wife and son would have been working.

Two or three of the dead civilians had firearms clutched in their lifeless fingers, and several bloody bodies were dressed in the uniforms of the Revolutionary Guard. The Kurds hadn’t allowed access to the building without a fight. More staccato bursts of M4 fire barked through the building as the Iranian soldiers in there seemed to be taken by surprise. More guardsmen descended the central steps and went down as every Peshmerga fired. Timo joined his ad hoc squad in a race across the large vestibule to the base of the wide stairway. More bodies lay on the stairs, and the Kurds ducked and fired at the enemy soldiers retreating out of sight up onto the second level.

Then Timo Sheen’s world shrank with brutal force as he saw the slender body of a young man in blue jeans and a Boston Red Sox T-shirt, holding a pistol in his hand, lying lifeless near the top of the stairs.

“Jochi!” he cried, springing to his feet, shaking off the grasping hands of his comrades trying to hold him back. The Kurds unleashed a barrage of covering fire up the flight of marble steps as their commander leaped upward to cradle the bloody remains. “My son!” he groaned, raising his face and uttering a howl of anguish so savage, it was almost lupine.

The Peshmerga swept up on both sides of him like specters in a distant dream, passing him, firing steadily to drive the Iranians back down the corridors to each side. One Kurd fell, her face half torn away by automatic weapons fire, but the rest took up firing positions and directed lethal rounds to the left and right. Several threw grenades, and concussive blasts and sprays of shrapnel pierced the air.

But Timo’s world remained closed, focused only on the broken hope of his future, the lost life of his son. The boy who’d perished while his father had been on the far side of his country—instead of here protecting him, where he belonged.

* * *

If he hadn’t remembered Birsin, Timo might have cradled Jochi’s body for the rest of the day, the rest of his life. As it was, the knowledge that his wife faced peril as dangerous as that which had claimed his son forced him into action. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and saw the eleven survivors of his squad waiting expectantly at the top of the marble stairway. Their faces were strained with grief and fury, but their eyes looked at him with concern.

“We’ve got to keep going,” he said, laying the boy back down. Timo’s uniform was covered in blood. His first thought was rescue, but a seething desire for revenge bubbled just below the surface. He didn’t even notice the relief, the private exchange of reassuring looks, with which his fighters reacted to his statement. As if on autopilot, he jacked a new magazine into his weapon, even though he couldn’t remember firing, and climbed to the top of the stairway. There, hallways extended some distance to either side with dozens of doors visible off them. Two offices stood open at the head of the stairs, bloody bodies visible within. A third door was firmly shut.

“Where are the closest ones? I need a prisoner,” he declared.

One of his men indicated the closed door. “A couple of the bastards ran in there,” he said.

“Blow the door,” Timo ordered.

Another soldier used the simple expedient of placing a live grenade next to the door, then joined his comrades on the stairway, below the blast radius. As soon as the explosion rocked the hallway, the Kurds sprang up out of the stairway. Half of them took up defensive positions watching the corridor, while the other half followed Timo into the room.

They saw three dazed Iranian guards staggering to their feet, dusty and stunned by the blast. Timo shot the two enlisted men and stepped up to the third, an officer in a field uniform with a colonel’s epaulets on his collar. Timo slammed the butt of his rifle into the Iranian’s face, and he went down hard.

The colonel’s dark eyes flashed hatred as Timo knelt on his chest and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the already bleeding nose. “There was a woman up here—a good woman, who sought only to help these wretched people. Where is she?”

“She’s alive!” the colonel cried. “In the university president’s office—with many guards! You’ll never—”

Timo silenced him by slashing the barrel of his gun across the man’s face. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “What cause do you have to attack civilians—women and children? Those who merely come here to seek shelter and food?”

“Pah! They’re traitors, enemies of the holy cause! Infidels and Salafists,” the officer snarled, “all of them a cancer on Greater Persia—it is an honor to cut them out.”

“Who’s your commander?” Timo’s voice was low, almost preternaturally calm.

“We are the elite legion of General Davoud,” came the reply.

“General Reza Davoud?” Timo was familiar with the name; the officer was notorious, even among the fanatical leaders of the Revolutionary Guards. “And he’s here with you now?”

“He—” The prone, bleeding colonel started to speak, then bit back his words. “I am in command here!” he boasted.

“Not for long,” the Kurd replied, squeezing his trigger once to give truth to his statement.

“Colonel Timo, sir!” one of his Peshmerga called urgently. The speaker was the young captain, Ferhad Sirvan, and he pointed into the corridor with his gun barrel. The company of Kurds had gathered to both sides of the entrance to a wide corridor.

Timo hurried over, following the lead of his fighters by staying out of the line of sight of whatever was down that hall. He looked at Captain Sirvan, eyebrows raised in mute question.

“Lots of officers down there,” the man informed him. “We fired on them, and they fled into the large room at the end of the hall. They’re setting up a machine gun to command the approach.”

The ornate, copper-clad doorway at the far end of the hallway suggested access to a grand office. Timo had one stark thought: Birsin’s there! He needed to reach her, quickly.

“Grenades,” Timo ordered, pitching his voice low to keep it from carrying to their enemies. “Lock in the M320 if you have it; the rest of us will throw by hand. Everyone fire on my command.”

His fighters nodded. About half of them carried an M320, a bulbous tube that snapped under the barrel of the M4 assault rifle and launched a 40mm grenade with force and range; each of those Kurds attached his launcher and loaded it. The rest, like Timo, pulled a grenade from those they carried on their vests or belts, primed it, and made ready to throw.

“Now!” The Kurds leaned around the corners leading into the wide hall, some standing, some crouching, and a few with grenade launchers stretched prone on the floor. Machine gun rounds filled the hallway over their heads. The M320s popped first, and the far end of the hallway was immediately rocked by explosive concussions. The hand-tossed grenades came next, rolling and tumbling down the marble floor, blasting in lethal bursts that splattered shrapnel in every direction.

The shock of the blasts still reverberated as the Kurds charged down the wide hall, past a wrecked machine gun and the mangled remnants of its crew. The doors to the wide office beyond the gun had been damaged by the explosions, and the first of the rushing men burst through and darted to the sides so that the rest could follow. Timo went right down the middle, his M4 held at eye level, jogging through the wisps of smoke, past the open door—

And halted, meeting the terrified eyes of his wife. Birsin was held from behind in the rough grasp of a massive Revolutionary Guardsman. The large man held a pistol with the muzzle pressed hard to the side of her head.

Timo froze, barely aware of anything beyond the woman he loved, helpless in the clutches of his enemies. All the Kurds halted at the sight, though they had the presence of mind to scan the room for active threats. In addition to the man holding Birsin, there were four Iranian officers. Two of them had drawn their sidearms, but instead of aiming at Timo’s squad, they, too, leveled their weapons at Birsin Sheen. One of them stood directly at her side, the barrel of his pistol inches from the woman’s other temple. Nobody moved to fire; for a few seconds, nobody spoke.

Finally, the enemy colonel, the officer holding Birsin in front of him, spoke in reasonably fluent Kurdish. “Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Sheen,” he stated. “Looking even more heretical in person than in your file picture.”

“Let my wife go,” Timo replied hoarsely. “I’ll grant you safe passage out of here if you do. If you don’t, you’ll die.”

Birsin struggled and then screamed as her captor pulled her head back by her hair. It took every ounce of discipline Timo had not to shoot at the brutal Iranian—only his wife’s proximity, and the gun pressed to her scalp, stayed his hand. He noticed almost idly that Birsin’s hijab lay in a tangle at her feet. “Release her!” he demanded again.

“I will not,” the colonel retorted. He stared at Timo, his eyes burning with a cruel fanaticism the Kurd had seen too many times before. “You are a pathetic symbol of hope for your infidel Peshmerga—and you dare send your wife to foment rebellion within the borders of my nation. This interference will stop!”

Appalled and numb with horror, Timo saw that the officer had a long knife, almost a sword, in his other hand. The M4 swiveled to the Iranian colonel’s forehead, but the man holding Birsin pulled her hair again, and her terrified scream was even louder.

“Timo—no!” she cried.

“Wait!” the Kurdish leader shouted, raising his gun’s barrel to the ceiling, desperate to freeze events where they were.

But the colonel’s blade flashed, and Birsin didn’t even have time to scream again as the keen edge sliced the skin, tendons, arteries, and airway of her neck. Her head, nearly severed, flopped grotesquely to the side as blood fountained over the startled soldier who’d been holding his gun to her temple. The room filled with the smell of blood.

“No!” Timo screamed as the guns of his soldiers erupted. Rounds whistled and ricocheted around the room; the Iranian colonel was almost cut in half, and the rest of his men fell dead in their own bloody pools.

But Timo only had eyes for the body lying at the forefront of the massacre. His wife, gone… his son, slain. The deadly knife might as well have slashed through his own heart—in the bottomless well of his soul, he knew only despair, hopelessness, blackness… a hellish void.

With a few halting steps, the young colonel walked to the side of the nearly decapitated body that was all that remained of the woman he loved. The image of his fallen son overlaid the horror at his feet.

In the distance, the volume of fire rose as the Kurdish scout units finally arrived, engaging the last of the Guard’s attackers still on the university grounds.

In the most difficult action of his life, Timo knelt and gently moved Birsin’s head adjacent to her neck. He suppressed a sob, just one. To him, the world had changed; even colors seemed different. Then his shoulders firmed, and he looked up at the six men and four women gathered around him. He was still holding her head in place, blood running though his fingers.

The words came out hard, a dry, rasping croak. They were a promise to his soldiers, his nation, and to those he’d loved and now couldn’t help but feel he’d failed.

“Never again.”

* * *

The vengeful Peshmerga stalked through the administration building, killing anyone who wore the uniform of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Timo personally pulled his trigger a half dozen times, more than once shooting down a quivering young soldier whose hands were raised in surrender. He used only a single bullet on each execution; already, deep in his subconscious, an awareness burned that he would personally be willing to kill every single member of the ayatollah’s Revolutionary Guard. Even then, his wife and son wouldn’t be properly avenged.

When his men moved to the upper floors of the large building, Timo descended by himself to the atrium. There, he knelt and tenderly lifted his son’s lifeless body in his arms. Walking steadily despite the weight, he climbed back to the office where Birsin had died and placed Jochi’s body beside his mother. The room smelled of blood and despair. The sunlight streaming in two large, arched windows seemed out of place. He tore down a velvet drapery from one of the windows and laid it over the two as a shroud.

After that, Timo Sheen knelt beside the lifeless bodies and lowered his head. He didn’t pray. He couldn’t believe any god existed who’d sanction this in the world, or that one who did would care a whit for the pleas of a grieving man. He felt like he should weep, but he couldn’t. Instead, he endured an almost physical sensation as his heart hardened in his breast.

“Never again,” he repeated in a whisper, almost inaudibly. “We were weak, and they preyed upon our weakness. Now we’ll become strong. We must become strong.”

Several more shots snapped out on the floors over his head, but he remained, kneeling and unmoving, until his Peshmerga returned to the office to report the building was clear.

“We found a half dozen Guardsmen above us; they’re making their excuses to Allah now,” Captain Sirvan reported.

“Very well,” Timo said, finally rising to his feet. “We’ll see what else we can find here. Sergeant Ahmad,” he added, addressing his communications technician, “is your radio in good order?”

“Yes, Colonel, but I’ll have to get out of this building to get any kind of reception.”

“We’re done, here. My wife and son will rest where they lay for the time being. Come.”

He led his band of warriors down the stairs, and they emerged onto the plaza, ready for more killing—but now they saw only corpses and destruction, no more targets. Pyres of oily smoke marked the wreckage of at least five helicopters, and those machines that were still flightworthy seemed to have scrambled away. Any Iranian soldiers left behind were either dead or hiding. Firing from the city’s edge, where the leading elements of the Kurdish scouts approached the refugee camp, rose and fell fitfully; the enemy didn’t seem to be making a determined stand in defense.

“Sergeant, contact the advance elements of the Eastern Army. Find out when they’ll arrive in Mahabad. Then see if you can contact Roger Tang.”

While Ahmad raised his antenna, fixed his earphones, and spoke into his microphone, Timo and Captain Sirvan walked to the edge of the raised portico of the administration building and looked across the plaza. They saw no fewer than thirty or forty destroyed vehicles, and hundreds of bloodied bodies.

“This was a raid, not an attempt to occupy the city,” Sirvan noted, “else they’d have come by land and stayed.”

Timo looked at buildings scorched by flame, bomb craters, ranks of Kurds and other civilians torn like rag dolls by heavy machine guns. “This was wholesale slaughter—mass murder,” he replied. “The ayatollah wants nothing less than to wipe the Kurds off the Earth!”

“Colonel,” the radioman called. “The Mobile Force of the Eastern Army advances north up Highway 11. The lead elements are fighting into the city’s outskirts, while the main body’s in sight of the reservoir; they estimate they’ll reach the city within an hour.”

Timo nodded. “And Tang?”

“He reports the surrounding skies are free of enemy choppers—a large fleet of them are withdrawing to the southeast. He shadowed them for a distance, until fighters approached.”

A rifle shot snapped from one of the buildings across the plaza, zinging off a column near Timo. The Peshmerga instinctively scattered and advanced on the shooter, using the large sculpture for cover.

“Over there,” reported one of the fighters, a keen-eyed woman named Trifa Sivan. “I saw movement in that garage.”

A row of truck-sized garage doors stood along the flat wall above the loading dock of what was obviously a service building. One of the doors was open, though Timo couldn’t make out details in the shadows within.

“Give me cover!” he barked.

“Colonel, wait—stay behind cover—let me go!” begged another of his Peshmerga, a wiry sergeant and experienced medic named Hedi Jahani.

Timo knew the man was only thinking of his commander’s safety, but he was in no mood for caution. He ignored the plea as he sprinted toward the charred hulk of a Datsun pickup truck, smoke still rising from the bullet holes made by Iranian guns. His men sent a smattering of shots toward the garage, and when no return fire impeded him, Timo darted to the next scant shelter—the jumbled corpses of several refugees, lying where they’d bled to death.

He saw several of his fighters, including Sirvan and Jahani, mirroring his advance, circling toward the opening from the left, while he angled in on the right. Again, the Peshmerga covered him, and he continued to press forward, finally rolling behind a stone wall only a couple dozen meters from the garage door. Now the edge of the loading dock gave him some cover, so he made the final dash across the open driveway; he heard a shot and felt the bullet pass over his head, but he slid safely behind the raised concrete platform.

A flight of steps rose from the driveway at either end of the dock, which was long enough to serve four trucks. Using hand signals, Timo directed his forward troops—there were three Peshmerga now—to take the left side stairs while he’d advance up the right. At the head of the stairway, double doors opened into a large lecture room. Rushing in shooting would be suicidal. The worried officer paused, forcing himself to stop and think. There was a safer way to clear the room. Anticipating his tactic, two of the Peshmerga pulled hand-held grenades from their belts, while Timo primed one of his own. All three threw simultaneously, then dashed up the stairs after the grenades exploded in the open doorway.

Timo was the first into the shadowy enclosure, a hot, stifling warehouse stinking of diesel fumes and smoking cordite. He saw a bleeding man wearing the shredded uniform of the Revolutionary Guard, trying to crawl behind some crates against the wall. Holding his M4 at the ready, he stalked forward, grabbed the man by the ankle, and pulled him roughly backward. The tug drew a scream of pain, the Iranian dropping his rifle as he squirmed to pull free. A sharp kick to his knee silenced him momentarily. Blood smeared his face and hands, and shrapnel had shredded the shoulders and arms of his uniform, but he didn’t seem to be seriously wounded.

The Kurds rolled him onto his back, covering him with several rifles.

“How many more of you are here?” Timo demanded in Farsi.

“Infidel!” the bleeding soldier spat. “More of us will come—you will be—”

Timo shot him before he could finish articulating whatever dire threat he’d been ready to pronounce. He felt nothing as he pulled the trigger. No satisfaction, no regret. It was just what he must do. The officer straightened, his attention immediately on their surroundings. The building was all steel with a high ceiling braced by a lattice of metal beams. He saw several large vans emblazoned with the Red Crescent, and a number of other vehicles: SUVs, pickup trucks, and Jeeps. Across the large area, he saw several smaller, auto-sized garage doors—some in the west wall, one in the south—while a number of personnel doors led into an adjacent building to the north of the garage.

“Search this place,” he ordered, a warning prickling even though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The large vans proved to be mostly empty, though a few contained boxes of food, tent sections, and one had about a hundred folded military cots inside. “See if you can find keys for these vehicles,” he added.

Going back out onto the loading dock, Timo signaled to the rest of his fighters to join him. They advanced in open military order, some taking up firing positions, while the others raced from one piece of cover to the next. They crossed the plaza with no further sign of the enemy, however, and when they joined him, the commander posted a couple of rifles to keep an eye on the plaza. He also had two more circle around to watch the other external approaches to the storage warehouse.

He left the rest to continue the search while Sergeant Jahani accompanied him to the doors leading into the large building adjacent to the garage and warehouse. Leveling his M4, he gestured to the soldier to try to open the double doors, which yielded at the first pull.

Immediately he saw movement in the wide, dark corridor within, as someone tumbled through a smaller door into a nearby room. A streak of fresh blood marked the floor where the person had been. Both Kurds held their weapons aimed forward as they crouched and moved forward.

“Friend! Don’t shoot!” a voice croaked in Kurdish from within the room. “I’m wounded.”

The speaker was a young man dressed in the plain shawl of a shepherd or farmer. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall and cradling his bleeding left arm in his lap. “I saw a first aid cabinet in the garage—I’ll get the medical kit,” Jahani said, and trotted back through the door.

“Who are you?” Timo asked, advancing and kneeling beside the wounded man.

“Aza Gazi,” he said. “I tried to fight—” His voice choked into tears, and it was clear that he was little more than a boy.

“I can see that,” Timo replied. “Tell me what happened.”

“They came in helicopters—we heard them before they got here. First came the little choppers, and they dropped firebombs and fired rockets. The hospital was destroyed, the camp set on fire. Many of them landed outside the city, and there was much shooting.

“But some of them came here, to the university. They shot everyone they could see, fired rockets into cars and trucks and buses. They only wanted to kill! I went into the garage with an axe to try to keep them out of this place, and I swung as they entered. They shot me. I fell at once, and they must have thought me dead. They raced past me into the building.” There was blood on the blade of his long axe.

“Aza… you’re well named, Brave One,” Timo offered.

Hedi Jahani returned with a bundle of gauze, some scissors and tape, and a bottle of disinfectant. He knelt beside the wounded man and gingerly extended the arm to reveal a compound fracture, white bone jutting through the skin above his elbow.

“Why did they want to come in here?” the officer asked Gazi. “What is this place?”

“Our computer center,” the wounded man replied, wincing as the Peshmerga medic straightened his arm. Hedi pulled on the wrist, and the visible shard of bone retracted beneath Gazi’s skin.

“How many came in?” Timo pressed. He was trying to distract the man from his pain, but he was also curious about the attackers’ intentions.

“Maybe four or five soldiers,” Gazi said, before gasping in pain and closing his eyes. But he opened them again and looked at the Kurdish commander. “And one man who looked like a schoolteacher or a clerk, not a soldier. His hands were clean. He was young, but the soldiers deferred to him.”

“Did they leave again?”

The wounded Kurd shrugged. “I blacked out. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“What was your job here?”

“I was one of those who maintained the electronic records of the relief effort. Madam Sheen herself entrusted me with the rosters of everyone who came here, and everyone who contributed aid.”

At the mention of his wife’s name, Timo shuddered under a renewed sense of fury. “You spoke to her?” he asked, his voice tight.

Gazi nodded. “She was in the administration building—she had her office there. We urged her to flee, to take cover as soon as we heard the helicopters, but she insisted on staying at her desk, calling all the stations, and ordering them to flee. She was there when I left to run over here to try to wipe the mainframe. I hope she made it out.”

“She didn’t,” Timo said tersely. “She stayed at her desk, as you said, and died there. It falls to us to avenge her, and all the others slaughtered by the orders of the mullahs.”

Timo’s tone was such that those nearby froze until he’d finished speaking, not realizing they’d done so.

He rose, fists clenched, and left Hedi to tend the wounded youth while he took the rest of his Peshmerga deeper into the computer center. They found the bodies of a number of technicians, all of them shot, and then heard sounds of crashing and banging from a large room sealed behind a solid double door. Voices barked commands in Farsi.

Timo gestured to two of his largest soldiers, signaling with a punch that they should bash the door open. The rest of his squad raised their weapons. When all was ready, the two Kurds kicked hard, and the double doors sprang wide to reveal a sanitized, air-conditioned room. Several green-uniformed Iranians were busy smashing consoles and computer screens with hammers and an axe. They barely had time to react before a series of single shots snapped out, and almost every one of the enemy soldiers fell.

Except for one, who’d been standing off to the side. The fellow dove behind a bench covered with cables and electronic equipment. Advancing on the survivor, Timo heard weeping, the pathetic sound coming from behind the bench. There, they discovered a man in his early twenties wearing a clean guard uniform with no insignia or rank, hands pressed to a face that was wet with tears. He blubbered something unintelligible and rolled over to press his face to the floor. Timo wondered if this was the “one who looked like a schoolteacher”—the young man the Iranian guardsmen nevertheless treated with respect.

“Should he die now, Colonel?” one of the female Peshmerga asked, her rifle pointed at the smooth, beardless face. She looked disgusted by the display of craven emotion.

“Hold,” Timo replied, unsure even as he spoke what had prompted him to spare this fellow’s life. Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that he had questions and needed answers. “I want this one alive. Search him and bring him along.”

The Peshmerga pulled the young Iranian to his feet and patted him down roughly, finding no weapons. The pair of big men who’d bashed down the door took the prisoner by his scrawny arms and pulled him along as the Kurds made their way back to the garage. The youth seemed completely unhinged by fear; the two men practically dragged him down the tiled corridors as he sobbed hysterically.

In the garage, they found Aza Gazi sitting in a chair next to an open Jeep, his arm and shoulder wrapped thoroughly in gauze, his expression dulled somewhat in clear indication of a powerful painkiller.

“I gave him a shot of morphine,” Hedi explained. “I think his arm can be saved if we get him to a hospital.”

“What about Tang and his aircraft?”

“He’s circling back to land where he set us down,” Sergeant Ahmad said. “He’s low on fuel but says he can make it to Kirkuk.”

“We’ll give Gazi a seat on the plane. And what about these vehicles? Did you find keys?”

“We found a cabinet that has a lot of automobile keys, but the only one we’ve matched so far fits this Jeep,” Captain Sirvan explained. “I think eventually we can drive the vans and many of the smaller cars away.”

“All right. I’ll fly back to Kirkuk with Tang and report to President Hassan and the general staff. I’ll take a few men with me. Govend,” he said to one of the big men holding the Iranian, “you take charge of the prisoner. I want to bring him back with me on the aircraft.”

He looked around the garage at his weary men, sharing the slow drain of release that comes at the end of action. Suddenly he felt the fatigue of this day that had begun with a morning battle and had led him through the destruction of his family. “More troops should be arriving within the next hour or two, and you can turn this place over to them. They’ll have at least three hundred men and armored cars, so they can do a proper job of recon. Until they get here, I want the rest of you to stay here and match keys to vehicles—the hospital’s gone. Survivors will need transport. Where’s the fueling station?”

“I’ll show you.” One of his men pointed across the warehouse, while the others dispersed, with Govend pushing the prisoner roughly against the side of the Jeep. The Iranian had stopped crying aloud, but his face was a picture of misery, eyes bloodshot and still teary.

Timo saw a low platform with both gasoline and diesel fuel pumps just a few dozen meters outside the garage. The doors were open, facing the west, and the setting sun spilled into the large space. He saw that, beyond the university campus, the streets of Mahabad were mostly empty, though fires burned here and there throughout the city. Several fire brigades were at work, and many citizens had gathered to help fight the blazes.

Abruptly he heard a scream of pain and anger and spun to stare across the garage. He saw that the chair where Aza Gazi had been sitting had been upended—it was the wounded young man who’d cried out. Someone was in the Jeep’s driver’s seat, and Timo heard the engine turn over and immediately roar into life. Tires screeched and smoked on the cement floor as it accelerated wildly, arrowing toward the single door on the south side of the garage.

Timo joined his men, racing toward the moving vehicle, but he noticed a motionless figure on the floor beside Gazi. It was Govend Baksi, the Peshmerga he’d ordered to guard the prisoner.

The Jeep shot through the garage door into the bright sunlight and turned sharply left, vanishing from the view of the Kurds within the building. Timo didn’t need visual confirmation to know that it was the young Iranian. The youth who’d seemed so catastrophically distraught was now behind the wheel of the Jeep. A few of the Kurds reached the door and snapped off bursts from their automatic rifles, but Timo arrived in time to see that the moving target was already too far away to be in danger. In another second, it turned down a side street, and he disappeared from view.

Timo returned and knelt beside the fallen private, appalled by the amount of blood spreading from the man’s slit throat. A tiny silver blade, no larger than a fountain pen, jutted from the side of his neck.

“He struck like an asp!” Gazi croaked, blood already soaking through his bandage. “He had the blade concealed under his sleeve, and the knife slid right into his hand when he snapped it forward. He stabbed your man, and then kicked me to the ground.”

Timo turned to watch the dust cloud where the Jeep had vanished around the corner, knowing that the escaped prisoner was heading toward a road out of the city—a road that would carry him straight into the heartland of Iran.

“Who was that bastard?” he growled. “I want his head.”

“He told me…” Gazi said, convulsing in pain, “he said he killed for the Islamic Republic of Iran, and in the name of his father.”

“Who is his father?” Timo demanded. His voice was flat, frighteningly cold.

Gazi grunted. “General Reza Davoud.”

* * * * *

Chapter 2: 15 October, Year 9

Kurdish Army Headquarters,

K1 Military Base

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic, 9:00 am

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night to clear the city. Timo awakened, groggy and still exhausted, at the slight bump of the G13’s landing gear deploying. For a moment he dwelled in foggy, comfortable confusion, lingering in the wake of a pleasant dream—and then real memories crashed in on him. Birsin, Jochi—dead; the camp in Mahabad in flames; General Helgurd, lost in battle against the Syrians. He shook his head, desperately longing for the escape of further slumber, yet fully awake, alternately grieving and numb. Soon, the dusty runway rolled past the window.

Nursing the last of his fuel, Tang had chosen to glide his spectacular aircraft into a conventional landing rather than attempt a petrol-sucking vertical descent. Timo continued to stare out the window as the sleek jet taxied to a stop near the main hangar. The first rays of sun lightened the eastern sky, and he recognized the wizened form of Sergeant Major Jaziri at the wheel of the Humvee as it rolled toward him. A military ambulance, summoned for Aza Gazi and the two Peshmerga who’d suffered wounds in Mahabad, came to a stop beside it.

The Kurdish colonel, his mind sinking through the mire of loss and pain, barely noticed the arrivals. He pictured the young Iranian, son of Reza Davoud, laughing as he drove away, leaving Govend Baksi bleeding to death on the garage floor. Timo’s fingers curled unnoticed into fists—another death he should have prevented. He wanted nothing more than to strangle that murderous Iranian with his bare hands—and then to keep killing, until no more of the despised Revolutionary Guard remained upon the Earth, until no one lived who threatened his home and his people. Maybe then his whole world could stop hurting.

“I’m going to my corporate compound at Baba Gurgur North,” Tang told him, rising from the pilot’s seat. “I know matters here require your attention. But when you can get free, I think you’ll find it worthwhile to pay me a visit. I’ve just gotten word about a delivery that may prove significant.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Timo said sincerely, clapping the big American on the shoulder. He appreciated the attempt to cheer him, even a little. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Tang made his way to the civilian parking lot, where he’d find his custom Mercedes SUV—as usual, he’d drive himself. Timo, meanwhile, allowed Jaziri to drive him over to the drab, two-story administration building that served as the headquarters of the Kurdish Republican Army. Two guards flanked the wide double doors, and they both snapped crisp salutes as the colonel entered the building.

Just inside, Timo was startled to see none other than the president of the Republic, Azad Hassan, advancing to meet him. Hassan’s weathered face, framed by a neat gray beard, projected sympathy and concern as he embraced Timo, kissing him formally on each cheek, and then honoring him with a third kiss. The young officer accepted Hassan’s condolences numbly and felt equally indifferent to his congratulations for the victory over the Syrian armored attack.

“Even though the cost,” the president acknowledged, “was too dear. General Helgurd will never be replaced.”

“Truly,” Timo agreed, as he was reminded of his other hard loss—barely less personal than the deaths of his wife and son, but which would leave a gaping chasm in his own life, regardless. “He was like a father to me for twenty-five years.”

“I know he was immensely proud of you,” Hassan said smoothly, leading Timo up the wide stairway to the offices of the general staff, “and he must be looking down at you with pleasure at the news I’m able to share now.”

“News? I don’t understand.”

“The general staff is in agreement; as of this moment, you’re promoted to general.” The national leader reached the top of the stairs and indicated the staff’s main conference room. “They’re waiting to greet you, congratulate you, in person.”

A general’s rank. General Timothy Sheen. This, naturally, had been Timo’s goal since the Kurdish Republican Army had been formally established some ten years earlier. He’d begun his career as a lieutenant, a key aide to General Helgurd, a friend of his dead father. He’d since made every effort to hone his leadership and organizational skills. Each promotion—to captain, major, lieutenant colonel, and colonel—had been a cause for celebration and hope.

Yet each of those occasions had been celebrated with Birsin, and then Jochi cheering him on, and General Helgurd encouraging him to further heights. Now that they were gone, this new accomplishment suddenly felt hollow, meaningless.

Only vaguely did he realize that the president was staring at him expectantly, even with a hint of irritation, or at least impatience. He’d stopped halfway to the room and regarded Timo with a curious, penetrating stare.

“I’m sorry,” the newly minted general replied, still numb. “Yes, that’s good news. Please, let’s go in.”

Three of the six top-ranking generals in the nation’s army were seated around a table as Timo entered, while a dozen or so aides and staff officers, among them four high-ranking female Peshmerga, stood along the room’s paneled walls. The generals rose to their feet, and everyone offered Timo a round of genuine applause as President Hassan stood in the doorway, beaming paternally. One of the women, a captain who’d commanded an infantry company through many firefights, stepped forward to remove the colonel’s eagle from his collar and replace it with a single star.

Overwhelmed, feeling his weariness and psychic pain acutely, Timo tried to smile. He saluted each of the generals in turn, meeting their eyes in succession. He knew them all, of course, had known them for decades. The senior officer was General Raman Qadir, some 79 years old and, with his stooped posture, weathered face, and tired eyes, looking every day of it. To the right stood General Simku Gokalp, a firebrand whose face was marked by an angular scar from forehead to chin—an injury he wore with pride—and whose heart seethed with a constantly visible, simmering anger directed at all the KR’s enemies. On the left was General Jiwani Barnas, who was even older than Qadir. Barnas’ staff position was more a courtesy for past service than acknowledgment of current competence or prowess. He blinked his watery eyes and smiled vaguely, as if unsure of exactly what they were all applauding.

“Please, join us at the table—our nation’s youngest general, and the one we all look to as the hope of the future,” General Qadir said graciously. Timo looked over his shoulder as he took a seat and saw that the president had already departed, closing the door behind him.

After gruff, but sincere condolences on the losses of his wife and son, the soldiers asked him to report first about the battle against the Syrians. They listened attentively, and several of the aides recorded Timo’s report. All of them appreciated the effectiveness of the experimental railguns and the performance of the Abrams tanks. They bowed in a moment of symbolic silence when he related the circumstance of General Helgurd’s death, “Leading his men in a charge to save our victory,” as Timo described it. Then they asked what conclusions Timo suggested they could draw from the engagement.

“I think we’ve blunted their armored power significantly,” he reported. “Of course, they can always buy more tanks from Russia, but these were their most veteran crews, and a great many of them were lost. We hold the battlefield, and several of the tanks can be recovered. There are enough generals waiting for the dictator to show weakness. This loss will make him even more insecure. President Assad will likely be unwilling to repeat this risk in the near future, even if his army is replenished from abroad.”

“I agree,” General Qadir stated bluntly. “It’s clear, given the events in Mahabad, that our gravest threat—at this time—lies to the east and south.”

“This new ayatollah is a madman!” Gokalp snapped. “He thrives on killing—the version of Allah he worships is a bloodthirsty god!”

“There are too many bloodthirsty gods in our part of the world,” General Barnas said sagely, “even if everyone claims it’s all the same god.”

“The mullahs have bankrupted Iran. Inflation remains crazy, completely out of control,” Qadir added. “He needs to conquer us to prevent a revolution there.”

“We need to put a military force in Mahabad. There are still thousands of refugees there, many of them our people,” Timo asserted. “The scout brigade can be a presence, but we need to send many more troops—at least a full brigade of infantry. There’s no time to waste!”

He spoke with confidence but noticed immediately that the three elder generals exchanged uneasy glances. Gokalp clenched his jaw, and Barnas blinked, looking from one to the other of his comrades. It was General Qadir who was left to speak.

“We won’t be deploying any of our forces on the other side of the border,” he said, shaking his head. “At this point, we can’t afford to give the mullahs any unnecessary provocation.”

“Mahabad is now part of the Republic, and they needed no provocation to kill thousands,” Timo objected, “including my wife and son! We can’t stand by and let those murders go unavenged, or we pave the way for more to take place.”

“No, no,” Qadir replied, “but we must counter them, for now, by bringing those refugees into the Republic; we aren’t in a position to move an armed force out to challenge Iran. They feel that Mahabad lies within the borders of their country. The mobile brigade was dispatched under your emergency order. They’ll be allowed to make sure the situation has stabilized, then they’ll escort as many people as can be transported further into the Republic. They must be withdrawn as soon as possible.”

“This order comes from the top echelon of the state,” General Gokalp added. Timo got a strong sense that the fiery soldier wasn’t in agreement with the command but felt obligated to obey.

“The president?” he guessed. “He said nothing to me about it.”

The statement hung in the air, unremarked upon. Really, there was nothing to say. The president had been badly wounded, fighting bravely against ISIS, but for too many years, he’d been a politician. It was like Hassan to let others deliver bad news.

For the next two hours, the generals discussed the nation’s strategic situation and military deployments. The small Kurdish Army included four infantry brigades and the armored battalion, with the potential support of many thousands of Peshmerga militia and reserves. The men agreed that one division would have to be sufficient to screen the Syrian frontier, while another would be deployed along the line of demarcation with Iraq, to the south. The other two would be posted to face Iran, but not in disputed territory. The armored unit needed replenishment after the battle with the Syrian tanks, and parts and several new vehicles had been ordered—the former from Israel, and the latter from the United States. When the battalion had been restored to full strength, it would return to its base south and east of Kirkuk, where it could readily respond to threats from Iran or Iraq.

Iraq, controlled by the Shia government in Baghdad, was a staunch ally of Iran, and the generals assumed the Iraqi Army would function as an auxiliary of the Iranians in the event of an actual war. Of course, Shia Iraq also had to be wary of the many Sunnis in Anbar Province, the border with Saudi Arabia, and in many other places throughout the country who were still ready to revolt.

“We need to accelerate the training and organization of our irregular units,” Timo noted after the army deployments had been settled. The KR had enough cadres of Peshmerga militia to quadruple the size of the armed forces within a few days of an activation, but the general staff had long advocated for a large increase in that number. “There are many young men and women who’ve come of age since our nation was formed. They’re willing to serve, but they need training.”

Again, the senior generals shook their heads. “We’ve been ordered to hold all training at the current level,” Gokalp reported glumly. “No new units are to be created.” His voice lowered enough to show his disapproval. “The president believes that would antagonize Iran.”

“But that’s madness! We’re surrounded by potential enemies—we need more troops to protect our borders!” Timo shouted as he looked from one of the elders to the next, but none of them would meet his gaze for a sustained moment of time. They’d been given orders; they’d follow those orders or, Timo suspected, they’d been told they’d be dismissed.

“The president feels it would be, er, ‘provocative’ to make any kind of readiness display. He feels our best chance of sustained peace requires that we give the mullahs no provocation.”

Timo was speechless. There was no chance for peace. The mullahs’ economy had collapsed. Their people were hungry. They needed a war. He looked again from face to face, each one a veteran who’d fought for the Kurdish people since the time of Saddam Hussein. He could see the frustration in their shaking heads, their slouching posture, their reluctance to make eye contact with each other and with him. They were patriots, and they were veterans, he realized…

But they were also very old, very tired men.

* * *

It was a discouraged and chillingly angry new general who made his way to the army motor pool, where Sergeant Major Jaziri awaited him after the meeting. He intended to have his old comrade drive him to Roger Tang’s local compound in the dull hope that the American could share some information that might improve his mood. Timo was too numb from the day’s events to even remember that Tang had suggested he had something interesting to show him. He simply had to go somewhere away from the generals, and the young man couldn’t bring himself to return to his now empty home. He wasn’t sure he ever could.

He departed the headquarters building and made his way to the cavernous garage of the officers’ motor pool, where Sergeant Jaziri had gone to commandeer a vehicle. Before Timo could make his way to the Humvee the venerable NCO had just refueled, however, he was approached by a young captain, Celal Duhoki, a Kurd he knew to be a courageous and smart leader.

“Colonel—excuse me, General Sheen,” Duhoki said, correcting himself as he spotted the new star on Timo’s uniform collar. “Can I have a moment?”

“What is it?” The young general remembered Duhoki had recently been reposted from Armor to the army’s Intelligence branch.

“I’ve been approached by an emissary for a new, potentially valuable, source of HUMINT,” the captain explained quietly. “He’s highly placed in Tehran, formerly a diplomat here in Kirkuk. It seems he’s in a position to provide us with useful information regarding the enemy’s plans. He has a small network of informants in high places. I’d like to open a channel, a small network, to put his intelligence to good use.”

Timo nodded. “You came to me instead of the general staff… because you think I might be willing to act on this intelligence when the time is right?’ he guessed shrewdly.

“Yes, sir. We’ve heard their new orders, and I trust your discretion. This man, his whole family, would be doomed if the mullahs got word of his willingness to help us.”

“And just why does he want to help us?”

The captain shrugged and shook his head slightly. “His emissary claims he admired our republic, as he watched it take shape and flourish during his time in the capital. The agent further alleges that the man despises the direction his own government is going, swearing only endless war and limitless killing lie down the road his nation is on. I suspect he wants to cast his lot with us.”

“Do you believe the emissary?” Timo asked.

The intelligence officer hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, sir. Yes, I do.”

“Then do what you can do nourish the relationship. Use any assets you need, under my authority. Let’s see what kind of treasures your little mining expedition can uncover. But verify…”

“Yes, sir, and thank you,” Duhoki said, snapping off a salute.

Timo’s spirits improved briefly, forcing his thoughts to finally turn toward the future, as Jaziri drove him to the headquarters compound of Tang Industries. But the darkness soon returned. His loss and the reality of his own and his country’s position kept intruding. They were outnumbered, there were barely enough modern forces to defend one border, and that lack was one reason his family was gone, forever.

Alone, he was wrapped around his thoughts and smothered by them. Only with an effort was Timo able to force himself to consider the current situation, which itself added to his depression. With no way to build armored vehicles or aircraft in large numbers, their destruction could only be delayed, not prevented. By the time they arrived at the industrial complex at the edge of the city, the numbness had returned, shrouding the sunlit day in gray.

* * *

Outside of Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

Tang Industries Research Center

Tang’s main building was a large, modern steel and glass tower that dominated the Baba Gurgur ring road on the north side of Kirkuk. Though it wasn’t obviously fortified, the complex was surrounded by a thick hedge and a deep ditch that would prevent a suicide vehicle from driving close. Tang Industries’ headquarters looked like a modern office building, with the twenty-meter-high letters “TI” in gleaming metal glinting across the lower floors’ windowless, gray stone walls. Timo was one of the few who knew those walls were reinforced concrete, stronger than those of most military bunkers. A dozen additional stories, all gleaming, tinted glass, rose above the stone facing.

The gate to the parking lot was manned by a pair of security guards who checked Jaziri and Timo’s IDs carefully, though they’d seen both men numerous times before. He suspected they were former US Navy SEALs. Roger Tang could afford the best. Both men congratulated him on his promotion.

As the Humvee rolled from the gate along a winding ramp into the bright, spacious parking lot, the new general noticed again the slots in the pavement under his wheels. He knew the gatehouse guards could activate a series of tire shredders along this section of roadway at the push of a button, further blocking unauthorized approach.

Timo, with Jaziri limping along beside him, was waved through the front doors into the massive lobby, bright with sunlight pouring through windows four stories tall, high overhead. There were large Kurdish Republic and American flags hanging behind the reception desk. Timo felt a surge of anger at his nation’s enemies, the murderers of his family, threatening to overwhelm him, but perhaps because it hurt so badly, as he walked across the marble-floored lobby, his pain and anger changed into a sense of numb unreality.

One of Tang’s senior aides was waiting to escort them into the private elevator, the way he’d done many times before. Timo heard his greeting, but it all seemed unreal, like he wasn’t really part of this world anymore. Less than a minute later, the general emerged directly into the CEO suite on the 17th floor.

Roger Tang greeted them enthusiastically and wasted no time in ushering both Kurds into a large chamber, a space appointed as a presentation room with a stage and several bright spotlights. Timo and Jaziri both stared at the object on the stage, clearly illuminated by the overhead spotlights.

“I told you I was expecting a package,” Tang said proudly, gesturing. “As you can see, it arrived!”

Timo slowly approached the mechanical object in the shape of a man standing erect on the stage. A full helmet covered the head, with a mirrored faceplate looking sightlessly outward. The arms, torso, and legs were bulky, and there seemed to be a skeletal framework. It was all covered in a flexible black material that seemed to reflect no light at all. The heavy gauntlets that formed its hands included five fingers. Boots with impressive tread formed the base of the two legs upon which the thing stood. It was larger than a human in every proportion and, even standing motionless, it projected an intimidating aura.

“Is it a robot?” Timo asked, trying to sound interested, though his voice was flat enough to give even Tang pause. The large, wooden crate behind the object was labeled, with the words stacked so the larger first letters lined up.

General

Ordnance

Garment

“No,” Tang replied with a shake of his head, “it’s something much, much better.”

“What in the name of the One God is a GOG?” Jaziri whispered in awe.

“It could be the secret to securing the future of your nation against any and all foes,” Roger Tang answered the sergeant. “This is an armored combat suit. Other nations have tried to employ these before, and they all failed for one reason: the suit needs too much power to last in battle. TI’s been working on one for the US Army. Fortunately for you, even the United States has abandoned their efforts.” Tang spread his arms expansively, then gestured at the suit, and smiled widely. He couldn’t hide the immense pride in his voice.

“Why’s that fortunate?” Timo asked. “And how is this significant, if there’s no way to power the suit?”

Tang smiled and answered, “The power source is no longer an insurmountable problem. We’ve finally developed a battery that allows a suit like this to function effectively for several hours. And with the American project now abandoned, there’s no other military force in the world that’ll be able to deploy these in the foreseeable future. Think about it; suits like this will let every fighter in your army project the power and mobility of a motorized platoon.”

“Seriously? I find that hard to believe,” the general replied, logic and reason overpowering the small surge of hope Tang’s words inspired.

“Why take my word for it?” the industrialist said with a twinkle in his eye. “Let me prepare a demonstration.”

* * *

Roger Tang left the two Kurds alone in his large, plush office for half an hour or so. Timo sat, dully at first, in an overstuffed leather armchair, ready for the world to fail him again. Then he realized Sergeant Major Jaziri was staring at him, the noncom’s concern—and possibly despair—apparent. He realized he was allowing himself to stay numb and emotionless. He just wasn’t ready to deal with all the pain and loss.

Timo forced himself to use the rest of the time to return to the adjoining room and examine the combat suit minutely, walking back and forth before the stage where the device was so theatrically displayed, then stepping up onto the platform to pace a full circle around it. Even then, he found he had to make himself concentrate; he was too ready to retreat into his own despair.

The apparatus was man-shaped, but much of the detail was hidden by a flexible black covering that was so flat, no light seemed to reflect off it. The open face plate seemed to be tinted like polarized sunglasses when turned to face the bright beams of the overhead spotlights. When the Kurd moved to the side, he could see the back of the head was padded. There were connectors and sockets within that hinted at some sort of electronic array inside. A long, thick belt stretched diagonally across the suit’s back, from the lower left hip to the upper right shoulder, just below the line of the neck.

His attention was so focused that many minutes passed before he noticed the man, a United States Army officer, standing near the offstage wing. Timo paused at the sight of the man, being a new general, wondering if he should wait on a salute. The officer responded with a casual, almost apologetic salute, which Timo returned sharply. The uniformed officer came forward, his tunic slightly rumpled, and his posture a bit more round-shouldered than might be expected.

“Allow me to present Major Rafael Hernandez of DARPA,” Roger Tang remarked with a smile as he came back into the room. “Major, this is General Timo Sheen and Sergeant Major Jaziri.”

Timo’s eyes widened in appreciation—the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency was well known in professional military circles. “We have you to thank for this, Major?” he assumed.

Hernandez, a short, thickset Latino, nodded as he extended his hand; his grip was firm, cool, and dry. “Me and others back home. Tang made some promises. We’re hoping you might be able to put it through its paces,” he said in reasonably fluent Kurdish, before switching to English. “I’m really more of a scientist than a soldier, and my best work is done in a lab. I spent the last four years perfecting this powered armor. The project needs to be tested in the field.

“It could be a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he went on. “As you know, President Chelsea has again drastically cut back most military research.” The officer shrugged. “We’re close, having dealt with everything except the power question, but back home, the order was to stop research and scrap the test units. The whole project’s been put on hold.” This time he smiled. “Seems like bringing them here is the best way to get rid of them. Beats letting them molder in a dump.”

“They’re combat ready?” Timo was skeptical. He was ready to hear it would be years more before such suits came online.

Hernandez nodded crisply. “Of course, not yet armed, but much of the technology has been around for decades. The problem is, these devices require a tremendous amount of power. We haven’t used them in the field because our power sources lasted no longer than half an hour. Hard to fight while attached to an extension cord.” His voice went from wistful to hopeful. “But Mr. Tang’s people seem to have indeed engineered a power pack that gives you a real chance to use our—what did your sergeant major call them, ‘GOGs?’—in the field.”

Timo paused, unwilling to accept any good news. Somehow, anything but gloom seemed a betrayal of those he’d lost. He realized he wanted to drown in grief, and it would be too easy to let himself do so. Tang seemed not to notice his lack of focus and continued speaking enthusiastically.

“The battery’s based on the same technology that powered the railguns,” the magnate explained. “There’s the battery pack, which attaches to the upper back of the legs.” He gestured to a solid-looking piece of black plastic at the foot of the stage. It was about a foot wide, and a bit longer, curved and angled to fit behind a leg just above the back of the knee. “Of course, it’s fully rechargeable with a detachable solar collector. On a sunny day, it can reach full power in a little more than three hours, and—under standard usage conditions—two of them will carry enough charge to power a suit for eight to twelve hours, depending on use.”

The American officer was obviously curious; he looked up from the batteries to Tang. The industrialist grinned, clearly proud of the breakthrough. “Most batteries use layers of different materials with individual electrons moving slowly between them. Using a new combination of rare earths mined here in the KR and hundreds of room-temperature superconductivity nodes, we’ve managed to create one where, instead of a trickle, the electrons move between the layers in sheets, or perhaps waves.”

Timo listened to the industrialist, somehow feeling the weight of his dead son’s body on his arms. No one noticed his momentary pained expression. He forced himself to feel less and concentrate on his friend’s words.

Tang gestured at the outside and added, “Those rare earths are easily mined in only a few places, the American West, China, some remote areas in Africa, and within a two-hour drive of this facility. That was part of the original reason I moved our research here.”

Timo went slowly over to the suit, which had several handles attached, and grunted involuntarily as he lifted it with some difficulty—and he wasn’t a frail man. He was sure there was something that would be as wrong with these GOGs as with the rest of his world. “This must weigh, what, well over two hundred pounds?” he noted in surprise. “How can a man be expected to carry this into action, along with his weapons and equipment?”

“That’s just part of what you’re about to find out.” Roger Tang grinned; he was clearly enjoying himself very much. Timo just looked at him expressionlessly, unwilling to allow himself any new emotions.

Theatrically, double doors behind him slammed open, and a tall man wearing one of the GOG suits strode into the room. His face plate was open, and he was smiling broadly. He seemed to move with little problem, striding smoothly up to the general and saluting.

“May I introduce Master Sergeant Dockery?” Hernandez announced. “On detached duty to DARPA, and now to you.”

The master sergeant nodded, and the faceplate slid closed silently, though the features of his face remained visible, albeit in shadow. “Happy to be here,” Dockery said, his deep voice only slightly distorted by the helmet that surrounded his head.

Obviously proud of the GOG suit, the master sergeant literally danced a few steps of a jig. In the quiet room, you could just barely hear the suit’s activators. He was already a big man, but in the suit, he now stood nearly seven feet high. Whatever was on the bottom of the feet made almost no noise, as what had to be over four hundred pounds of man and suit landed with each step.

“And you have the batteries in place,” Timo acknowledged, looking at the plastic packs strapped to the back of Dockery’s thighs.

“I do, and I can’t even feel the weight,” Dockery acknowledged. “I can run three times as fast as normal in this thing—though of course, stopping quickly can be a problem, since four hundred pounds of mass is still four hundred pounds of mass.”

“The power suits are lined with hundreds of small activators,” the DARPA scientist explained. “Hundreds of sensors feel the wearer’s movements. The activators are thin and long, modelled on muscles themselves. Spread throughout the suit, they not only allow smooth movement, their numbers mean damage to one area can’t disable the full suit. They do vibrate slightly when working.”

“Kinda tickles,” Dockery agreed. “Easy to ignore after a while.”

“Turn around slowly, Master Sergeant,” Hernandez ordered, and the big noncom rotated in place. “The structural support of the suit is primarily in the back. Very little of it is metal; most of it is constructed from spiraling, long-string carbon fibers, ten times the strength of steel, and non-magnetic. This allows most of the weight of the suit and ammunition to be supported by the rear frame.

“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” Hernandez said, and the suited man stopped rotating and stood in an over seven-foot-high version of parade rest.

“What covers the skeleton?” Timo asked in a flat, skeptical voice. “Is it just camo? Wouldn’t a color mix work better?” Something had to be wrong. The suits might well be the perfect weapon for his revenge and to defend his nation. He knew better than to expect such a boon from the cruel universe.

Dockery grinned slightly, and suddenly his suit began cycling through a number of surfaces, from desert camo, to forest green, to totally white.

“The surface is made from a smart material that can change color when given the right electronic signal,” the master sergeant explained. “It’ll automatically attune to match the surroundings—kind of like a chameleon.” His suit then returned to flat black. “This is the default, and I imagine it would be great for night actions.”

Major Hernandez took over explaining how the material covering the entire GOG suit was more than just camouflage. Behind the nearly untearable surface of the suit were a large number of long, ten-centimeter-wide by one-centimeter-deep bags. These contained a liquid that hardened only when struck. The result was a brief period when that part of the suit couldn’t move where it had been hit, but the impact was spread along the bags and into the frame of the suit.

“The liquid,” he added with a smile, “was originally developed by an Air Force cadet years ago. The graphene liquid is wrapped in diamene layers. Both are flexible, and both harden on any impact. They’ll protect the wearer from most small arms. When they’re soft, you really don’t even notice they’re there. Allow me to demonstrate, General, if you’d be kind enough to pass me your sidearm.”

The American major took the .45 auto Timo handed him, turning with surprising agility to fire three times into Dockery’s chest. Timo, his ears ringing, blinked in astonishment as the big man rocked back a fraction of an inch. Dockery never stopped smiling, and the bullets fell to the floor at his feet.

Sergeant Major Jaziri stepped over and picked one of the rounds up; it was barely deformed. He turned to Timo, and his grin was even larger than the American’s.

Timo let himself feel a faintly positive glimmer. The vest material could be useful, even when the suit proved impractical.

“At this low caliber, with the frame absorbing the shock, there aren’t even the bruises you might expect from a Kevlar vest,” Hernandez added, smiling proudly.

Tang took over, showing off the weaponry he’d modified and added to work with the suit. The top of the right arm from the elbow down was covered by a solid frame about an inch wider than the left. “This is,” he explained, “a small railgun. It has limited range, but the solid shot it fires will penetrate anything short of a tank’s frontal armor. The drawback,” he explained, “is that it takes so much power that each use cuts down the battery life by ten minutes, and it takes about 30 seconds to recharge. To keep from being knocked over, the suit locks solid for several seconds each time it fires. Each suit carries three rounds for the railgun.”

The left arm had a smaller, more normal-looking barrel on it, which Tang explained used standard rifle rounds. It could fire individually or up to full auto. “The standard magazine holds a hundred and fifty rounds, but the suit in its rifleman configuration can carry a dozen or more magazines,” Tang noted. “Of course, if you go all-in on rounds, you have to give up a few other bells and whistles.

“Oh, and targeting,” he added, “is augmented by a small computer in the back of the helmet. You can use the system to mark—literally with the blink of an eye—a dozen or more individual targets before you start shooting. The system will switch from one target to the next in about a tenth of a second. Master Sergeant, can you show the general the hand grenade feature?”

Dockery reached back with his right arm and touched his shoulder. A gray cylinder a few centimeters thick and twenty long popped into his grasp. That answered Timo’s unspoken question as to what the long shoulder-to-hip belt had concealed.

“These are the equivalent of a standard RPG round,” Tang explained, “only with the powered suit, no rocket launcher is needed. The rounds are made of stiff plastic. The thrower’s arm, aided by the suit, has a range of well over a hundred meters, with excellent accuracy. Master Sergeant?”

Dockery’s arm snapped forward so quickly, it couldn’t be followed. A sharp crack sounded from across the room, and as Timo turned, he saw the unarmed grenade had half buried itself in the cinderblock lining the wall.

“Just for good measure,” Tang added, “we’ve developed a cluster round for the suit that has a lethal zone five meters across.”

“If we run out of ammo,” Sergeant Major Jaziri said in amazement, “we can just throw rocks.”

The general felt some of the numbness fade. He could see how, with enough of these GOGs, his small force of Kurds could equal the enemy’s hordes of men and tanks. A glimmer of interest appeared in his eyes as he pictured the murderers of his family—and if they weren’t stopped, his country—being slaughtered. Then something broke open, and Timo saw his enemies, the murderers of everyone he loved, torn apart by an unforgiving horde of Peshmerga in the black suits. How good that felt frightened him.

“But enough talk from me,” Tang suddenly interrupted, possibly noting the changes in his friend’s expression. “There’s a lot more to these suits, and we’ll get to that data in good time. But for now, the initial decision is really up to you.”

“To me?” Timo was taken aback. He felt like he was just emerging from a dark sleep. The urge for revenge reinforced his need to protect what remained of what he loved, his country. He didn’t realize his voice sounded strong again. Then suddenly, Timo could see disaster. “What about the chiefs?”

“You’re the field commander,” Tang pointed out. “You’ll be the one to command them.” There was a long pause, and then the new general nodded at the industrialist. Tang was pleased that Timo understood what he meant. They wouldn’t even approve of expanding their army. Getting the political generals to accept a change like the suits would be nearly impossible.

Then and there, Timo decided nothing would stand in his way. Not even his own commanders. There was an almost physical shock as his emotions surged back—at least the iron determination that no one would do to other Kurdish families what had been done to his. They had a chance with these suits. He couldn’t throw that away. He stood up straighter, his expression changed, and even his eyes, normally dark, were the color of steel.

Jaziri, who’d been watching his general, worried, took an involuntary step back.

“I can see that a man wearing this suit will be the preeminent soldier on any battlefield,” Timo agreed, trying to sound calm and professional, “but he’ll still be one man. He might make a difference in the course of a firefight, and these might be useful for a raid or two, but a few experimental suits won’t win a battle, much less a war.”

“One suit probably couldn’t,” Tang admitted easily, “but what if you had a company of a hundred men wearing these—” he glanced at Sergeant Major Jaziri “—er, ‘GOGs?’ I rather like the sound of that. They could change a battle, couldn’t they?”

“A hundred?” The general was stunned. “How many of these do you have?”

“We have a dozen suits, already packed and ready for transit, if you want them,” Major Hernandez said. “They can be here in two days by priority transport. Remember, we’ve been ordered to destroy them anyhow,” he added bitterly. “So maybe they get destroyed in a good cause instead? We delivered all the dies and tools here last week.”

“I sort of figured you’d want ’em,” Tang added smugly. “I can add the weaponry to their suits in under a week. We’ve been using the plans DARPA sent me three months ago to ramp up the local production of key components. With their dies, we can begin production within days.”

“And batteries that fit?” Timo asked, seeing they were the key.

“I have my Israeli subsidiary ramping up production on those,” Tang said. “They started on the batteries two months ago. A production line for them in Kirkuk opens next week. We should have a full set of batteries ready for each suit as it arrives. In three weeks, we’ll be able to manufacture a limited number of both batteries and suits locally. In a few months, we’ll be producing more.”

“So within weeks, we could equip a small company of men with these?” Timo mused, still seeing the image of his enemies torn apart. “That could help, absolutely.”

“Be demons to the superstitious Iranian mullahs; keep ’em black,” Jaziri commented, grinning widely.

“And with a thousand… thousands?” Tang prodded. “In a year or two, those numbers aren’t out of the question.”

“I’m not sure the KR has that many more months,” Timo responded grimly. Tang was just happy to hear any emotion in his voice again, even concern. “But if we can hold out until then… with two or three thousand men in these suits, we’d stand a good chance of winning any war, including the one that’s coming at us soon.”

* * * * *

Chapter 3: 19 October, Year 9

Kurdish Republic

Southern Border

Sergeant Nisti Kahn waited nervously as the sound of the approaching Volks grew. The GAZ VPK was the infantry mobility vehicle of choice for the Iranian Republican Guard, the Russian equivalent of the Humvee. Each carried up to ten soldiers. Her patrol consisted of eight Peshmerga, but they had no choice but to engage. They were eighteen kilometers inside the clearly marked border, and too close to a forward supply cache to take the chance of it being discovered. At worst, they could distract the mullahs.

One of the Volks must have had an engine problem, backfiring occasionally as it approached. That almost made the small, brown-haired Peshmerga noncom laugh. The mullah’s army was notoriously bad at maintenance. The three Russian-made troop carriers had to line up as they sped between low hills on the weaving dirt road. They’d set up on a hill near a curve in the road, an opportunity for a classic L ambush.

Nisti’s heart sank as the Volks came into sight. Two were nicely clustered, only meters apart, but the badly running one lagged two hundred meters behind. There was no way to fire on all three at once, and each Volk carried more soldiers than were in her patrol. They’d just have to take on the front two first and hope there were enough of them left to deal with the third.

She shifted, raising one of their two RPGs. The smell of the clay and some fragrant plant she was unfamiliar with filled the air as Nisti took a deep breath. Then the first Volk was directly below, and she fired almost without thinking. The RPG flew down and slammed inside the open-topped vehicle. The explosion was enough to throw men into the air as the scout car veered and crashed to a burning halt against the hill below her. Two tan-clad soldiers slid out one door, and she grabbed for her rifle. Before she could aim, they fell, wounds visible in a line across both chests. She shifted her aim to the next infantry carrier. A portion of the right rear had been smashed by the second RPG, and the tire thrown meters up the slope.

She’d taken advantage of the terrain and placed them there for an L-shaped ambush, with herself at the end of the L’s base. That meant the three soldiers sheltering from the rest of her Peshmerga were clearly visible to her. The range was close, and she fired short, controlled bursts into the Iranians trying to find cover on one side or the other of the vehicle. All three died before they were aware of her fire.

The first Volk was on fire, and the ammunition in it was burning off. There were bodies sprawled all around the two carriers. None were firing back, or even moving. Dismayed, the sergeant saw another figure on the ground at the top of the far hill, arms spread, and legs pulled tight. It wasn’t moving. From his stout build, Nisti recognized Deber. The young Peshmerga had just finished training and joined the company. That was always the way, the new ones died, and by process of elimination, the veterans were those who’d learned how to survive. She was just beginning to feel his loss when she saw more than heard the thud of bullets slamming into the stone and clay just below her position.

Dropping and turning, she saw that the remaining Volk had halted in the distance, and one soldier had dismounted. Corporal Payin reloaded the last RPG and fired it. The round fell short, but it was close enough that gears ground as the Iranian scout car hurriedly turned and fled. The lone soldier had to scramble to jump into the moving vehicle as it accelerated away.

The fight had only taken a few minutes, but Nisti was drained. She just sat for a few seconds and realized there was only one reason for such a patrol. The Iranians already had maps, as this part of the Republic had once been part of Iraq, their reluctant ally. If they felt the need to scout it now, it could only be in preparation for an invasion. They needed to see if there were any prepared defenses.

Even as she stood and walked over to where Deber had fallen, Nisti felt the future grow darker.

* * * * *

Chapter 4: 22 October, Year 9

Command Center

Kirkuk

Timo Sheen never returned to the home he’d shared with his family. Eventually, he received a notice that his possessions had been put in storage. Some of his clothes and personal items appeared in his room, most likely Jaziri’s work. He could’ve stayed in a small villa, but the young general preferred to stay in the BOQ next to the communications center.

Two days after his promotion, Timo had tried moving into one of the small houses reserved for senior officers. The furnished wooden house had brightly colored walls and a modern kitchen. Five steps inside the front door, Timo had seen that it had a refrigerator and stove of the same brand Birsin had told him she wanted. Only a few days before they’d parted, they’d looked online and agreed to get both when they returned. One look at the appliances, and he’d fled, literally running after Jaziri as he pulled away.

The sun was long set when Timo finished the next of many incursion reports. He was tired—bone-weary and blurred-vision exhausted—but not yet ready to try to sleep. Sleep didn’t come easy, and staying asleep was almost impossible. He’d found it better to keep his mind occupied every waking minute, and to surrender to sleep only when he was unable to function at all.

Nights were the worst. It hadn’t been easy to adjust to the idea that he was sleeping alone now and would be forever. Half awake, his mind was able to fool itself into believing he was just waiting for her to get home. Those times, he was sure he smelled the faint odor of the vanilla scent she preferred lately. Then Timo would find himself fully awake. At first, his anger had filled the dark, lonely hours when sleep wouldn’t return. Then his anger had faded into depression, and even thinking was just too much effort. That he welcomed, as it hurt less not to think about an empty future.

But today, the young officer had a new, special reason to dread trying to sleep. The night before, unbidden and unwelcome, a thought had come. Birsin and Jochi were dead because he’d chosen his career over their lives. Bitterly, he pictured himself as a manager for Tang Industries, still coming home every night to his family. Roger had offered, more than once, but he’d chosen—been driven—to remain in the Peshmerga. Guilt rolled over his world and seeped into every thought. They were dead because of the choices he’d made.

Timo rose from his metal desk and paced as he read, walking the nine steps across his room from the steel door to a yellow cinder-block wall over and over. He was sure he could never forgive himself, but perhaps physical and mental exhaustion would grant him some escape.

* * * * *

Chapter 5: 26 October, Year 9

Zagros Mountain Range

Kurdish Republic

Clandestine GOG Center Alpha

Rafiq Jaziri passed his 61st birthday with no mental acknowledgement of the day’s significance. Nevertheless, the aches, weariness, and stiffness afflicting every part of his body served to remind him of each of those years. They’d been years with their share of love and laughter, in some measure, but also too much of war and suffering, of toxic gases descending on his people, or facing rapacious killers and conquerors. There’d been too many deaths for him even to begin to count.

His wiry frame no longer stood properly upright. A back injury suffered fifteen years earlier, when his Jeep had been struck by an RPG in the war against Daesh, had left him slightly stooped. He limped when he walked and felt every change in the weather. Most aggravating of all, he could barely see the details of objects more than a meter or two away without his thick corrective lenses. After a lifetime as a warrior, he had to accept that he was no longer capable of fighting.

These afflictions certainly soured his mood and sharpened his temper, but they did nothing to discourage his determination to train and lead the young soldiers of the Kurdish Republic. He did his work with a combination of immense knowledge, vast experience, and an irascible nature that inspired both fear and obedience in his charges. And he did it well.

Now he faced the most important training assignment of his long and varied career, and this awareness infused his voice with added authority as he addressed the 24 uniformed men and women standing in two ranks before him.

“You Peshmerga have been personally selected by me and General Sheen,” he barked, “but don’t let that convince you that you’re irreplaceable. If you fail, there’s another equally qualified candidate ready and willing to take your place.”

He stopped in the center of the line and stared at the Peshmerga in front of him. The young soldiers all stood at strict attention, their eyes staring with extreme discipline at a spot just over the sergeant major’s head. His eyes locked with those of an older veteran in the second line. Ragir Razak was young, but tough, even for this crew. The scarred Peshmerga looked interested and a little concerned. Satisfied that the top sergeant had their complete mental focus, he strutted back and forth in front of the double rank of GOG cadets. His back spasmed in pain, and his bad hip cried out with each step, but he refused to display any sign of weakness.

“The existence of this camp,” he continued, gesturing to the forested valley around them, “is unknown to anyone beyond a small group of officers and NCOs—and now, to you two dozen trainees. We’re here to master a new technology, a piece of equipment that may give us a chance to prevail against enemies on all sides who outnumber us. General Sheen has isolated us here so we can concentrate on this work, and so we can conceal our efforts from our enemies until he determines it’s time to do otherwise.”

The camp was, in fact, a rudimentary installation, with a row of framed eight-person tents in lieu of barracks, a large tent for a mess hall, and other temporary shelters for an infirmary, storage, communications links—including radio and satellite phone—as well as living space for Jaziri, Dockery, and the two Peshmerga sergeants and two corporals who were there to assist him. The mixed oak and pine forest in the foothills of the Zagros Mountains formed a thick canopy overhead. Additional camouflage had been deployed to further hide the canvas shelters.

But the real heart of the camp, and the ultimate protection against satellite, drone, or aerial surveillance, lurked within the dark cave that loomed behind the sergeant major as he addressed his cadets. The mouth of the cavern was about five meters wide and three meters in height. Because of the dimness of the dense forest, every little detail of the interior could be seen from where the young Peshmerga stood. With no more hesitation, the old soldier stalked into the cave and pulled down a switch. Immediately, two ranks of LED lights flared brilliantly, revealing a space thirty meters wide that extended some fifty meters into the mountainside.

Though the cave mouth was the work of nature, formed by erosion and the cracking of rock through cycles of freeze and thaw, the space within was no natural cavern. The walls ran straight back, and the ceiling had been smoothed to a uniform four meters in height. A column of six Humvees, facing outward, lined up on the right side of the passageway. To the left stood a series of workbenches, littered with tools and crates. Farther inside, past the benches and the vehicles, three GOGs stood erect, facing the entrance and the startled volunteers.

“Follow me,” Jaziri ordered. The picked recruits were too well disciplined to gasp or exclaim in surprise, but they followed the old man with expressions varying from reverence, to wonder, to an occasional tremor of fear. Jaziri wasn’t surprised—the GOGs, with their black faceplates and large, but humanoid shapes, were certainly awe-inspiring… and more than a little frightening.

The three suits varied slightly in size, ranging from two to almost three meters in height. “These are armored combat suits,” the sergeant major told his rapt trainees. “They have capabilities that’ll improve a soldier’s mobility, firepower, endurance, and protection.

“Nisti, Herme—step forward.”

He indicated the recruits he and Timo had previously agreed to appoint as the lead candidates. Nisti Khan was a petite woman with a thin, muscular frame, sparkling dark eyes, and a close-cropped head of black hair. She was among the smallest of the Peshmerga. Herme Karzan stood at the other extreme, tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick bush of wiry brown hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.

“Nisti will begin with the small suit; Herme will take the large,” the veteran continued. “I’ll be using the one in the middle. By the time our weeks of training are completed, you’ll each have access to a suit, and you’ll learn not just how to use them, but how to train your comrades in the use of them as well.”

Jaziri looked up and down the rank of now eager, hopeful faces. He believed he and Timo had picked well. “It’s our hope and our belief,” he concluded, “that you’ll be the vanguard of a type of soldier that’ll change the face of warfare here and across the world. Now, we begin.”

* * * * *

Chapter 6: 19 November, Year 9

Kurdish Army Headquarters,

K1 Military Base

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic, 2:00 pm

The four-bladed rotor of the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter spun slowly as the pilot adjusted the idle of the twin engines and waited for Timo Sheen to board. The machine sat on the helipad adjacent to KR Army headquarters. The general was about to lift himself into the cabin when he paused, distracted by the approach of a Humvee across the dirt outfield surrounding the landing pad. After a moment, he recognized his recently appointed intelligence officer, Captain Celal Duhoki, driving the vehicle. Motioning for the pilot to stand down for a few minutes, Timo jogged over to the Humvee as it rolled to a stop twenty meters away.

“News?” he asked, returning Duhoki’s quick salute.

“Information from the field and confirmation from my new source,” the captain, whom Timo had given the code name of “Raptor,” said earnestly.

The general nodded. The high-ranking Iranian who’d agreed to be a covert operative had, in just the last week, proved useful by sending detailed order of battle information about his nation’s Revolutionary Guard, as well as rumors of disaffection in a few of the Shia units—those units that were normally fanatically loyal to the mullahs and the nation’s harsh theocratic government. Units who, because of Iran’s poor economy, were short on everything from bullets to laundry soap. Though the data hadn’t led Timo to make any concrete plans, it had been most interesting.

Raptor continued, “No doubt you’ve heard the reports of sabotage in our borderlands, in several provinces facing Iran. A small dam has been destroyed near Qurah Bulak, and several bridges over the Diyalah River have been booby-trapped. One was demolished by fixed charges. There was another incident near Mawat, where a landslide was triggered, closing one of the roads leading from the city toward Kirkuk.”

“I had heard of the dam’s destruction; it was also an important bridge, wasn’t it? The work of the Revolutionary Guards, of course,” Timo acknowledged. “Crude, and annoying, but not on the level of an invasion, it seems?”

“No,” Duhoki replied, “but a pattern’s emerging. Each of these incidents has weakened our transportation infrastructure and could present a challenge if we need to move troops east or south within our country. They’re clearly trying to hamper our future operations.”

“Do you see any signs of a dramatic uptick in the action soon?” the brigadier general inquired.

Here, the intelligence captain shook his head. “That’s the reason I came to see you today—to report on my source’s most recent update,” he explained. “He indicates the enemy will bide his time through the winter and the first of the spring thaw. These nuisance attacks may continue for the next few months, but we must be prepared for a full-scale invasion, possibly as soon as early April.”

Timo felt a knot in his stomach. He wasn’t completely surprised by the news, but he was startled to realize how much he’d hoped overt hostilities could be averted for another year or two. “That’s useful to know,” he told Duhoki. “Please keep me up to date. April? Obviously, we have a lot of work to do.”

“Will the special unit be operational soon?” the captain inquired. He was one of the few who knew about the GOGs. Like everyone else who’d been informed about the radical technology, the intel officer understood the importance of the suits in buttressing Kurdish hopes for a secure future.

“Training’s just gotten under way at GOG Center Alpha in the mountains. We’re at least ten weeks away from any kind of meaningful force. I wish we had six months. Everything’s new, and we have to learn it even as we teach them. I’m going to check on the camp myself today. Keep up the good work.”

By the time the captain had turned the Humvee back toward the road, Timo had entered the Black Hawk and strapped himself into one of the seats by the open door. In addition to the pilot and copilot, the aircraft was manned by a gunner who could alternate between the port and starboard machine guns if necessary.

But this wasn’t intended to be a combat mission, and as the helicopter headed north from Kirkuk, Timo allowed himself a few minutes to contemplate the natural beauty that spread across the horizon before him. The Zagros Mountains constituted his favorite region, geographically speaking, of the Kurdish Republic. The long ridges with their snow-capped peaks and deep valleys filled with oak and pine forests, seemed a serene and remote refuge from the tangle of humanity, agriculture, and industry along the Tigris River. With some summits exceeding four thousand meters in height, the range stood as a natural fortification encompassing the entire KR border with Iran and curved around to run east-to-west along the northern border with Turkey. Within these deep valleys lay many concealed spaces, places that were inaccessible except by air or extremely capable off-road vehicles.

* * *

Zagros Mountain Range

Kurdish Republic

GOG Center Alpha, 3:32 pm

GOG Center Alpha was located in one of the most out of the way valleys Timo could find. Two more training centers were being established in nearby valleys, but for now, Rafiq Jaziri and his squad had the only three combat-ready suits in the army’s arsenal, the rest being set up for training. This was the first chance Timo had found to get away from headquarters and see for himself how the training proceeded. A little more than a week ago, he’d gotten enough GOGs to start the intensive training of his first, handpicked Peshmerga in their use.

The general’s pulse quickened as the helicopter descended to fly along the course of the mountain valleys, rising only enough to clear the high ridges by a hundred meters or so. Though Timo had had a hand in picking out the site of the camp, he found himself bewildered by the tangle of cliffs, peaks, rivers, and meadows. Only when the Black Hawk banked around a final turn did he spot the flat-topped massif that dominated the end of the valley over the GOG Center’s camp.

The chopper set down in a clearing near the pine forest concealing the installation. There, Timo was met by a Humvee with a veteran female sergeant, Tara Dilistan, at the wheel. She was one of Jaziri’s top assistants, handling all the quartermaster duties for the remote installation. That was no easy task, when everything had to either be helicoptered in or trucked over rugged, precipitous roads, crossing numerous streams that could only be forded when the water was low.

Five minutes later, the vehicle rolled up to the mouth of the cave. “The sergeant major has the team in the woods, but when we heard you were coming, he ordered us back here. They won’t be long—especially the first three,” she added with sly smile.

No sooner had she spoken than the trio of GOGs came into view, visible across a grassy meadow. The hulking, mechanical-looking suits moved with surprising grace, skirting a grove of oaks, each loping easily between tree trunks as they angled toward the camp. A wide, shallow stream meandered along the valley floor, and Timo couldn’t suppress his elation as each of the suit-wearing Kurds sprang gracefully into the air above the water barrier, spanning the ten-meter gap like they were hopping across a sidewalk. They landed smoothly and sprinted the last two hundred meters to the cave, racing along much faster than any human had ever run before.

Only as they pulled up near the general was there a glitch—the first two suits skidded to a stop with a spatter of dirt and gravel kicked up by their big boots, while the third, the largest, tried for a similar stop. That GOG had too much momentum, however, and toppled forward onto its face. A moment later, it sprang back to its feet, however, and all three faceplates slipped to the side to reveal Nisti Khan, Sergeant Major Jaziri, and a chagrined Herme Karzan.

“It handles like a dream,” the latter said, shaking his head ruefully. “I just need to get a better handle on stopping fast.”

“That’ll come with training—I hope,” an apparently exasperated Jaziri snapped, before turning to Timo and saluting as well as he could inside a GOG. “Welcome, sir.”

As Timo returned the salutes, the NCO directed his attention back to his suited trainees. “Now, while the rest of the team makes its way back to camp, demonstrate the spotting feature for the general.”

With some trigger inside the suit that Timo couldn’t see, Nisti and Herme snapped their faceplates smoothly, silently shut. The small Peshmerga knew she didn’t have to close her helmet to use the HUD, or head’s-up display, but the sergeant had insisted they develop the habit. Along the inside of the helmet were two bright spots and a series of small monitors in a 180-degree arc. The monitors were actually backups, capable of showing both views of the outside in several modes, and all the suit’s functions. Everyone immediately preferred the HUD, which didn’t project onto the faceplate, but directly into their eyes. There were six beams, all of which would follow her eye’s movement no matter what her head’s position was, but only one beam was necessary. So long as she kept her eyes open, everything appeared to hover in the air about a half meter in front of them. There was a choice of dozens of screens and feeds, and even an internet connection on which Jaziri had so far only allowed them to watch Chuck Norris movies. Nisti switched to her infrared sensors, and the countryside was overlayed with shades of red reflecting each object’s temperature.

The three GOG-clad Peshmerga stood back-to-back, their heads turning slightly as they confidently scanned the surrounding forest. Herme, in the largest suit, raised his head and scrutinized the rough slope above the cave mouth. “I count four—no, five targets approaching on foot.”

Timo couldn’t make out anyone on the slope until the slight wave of a branch allowed him to focus on a lone Peshmerga. He was in battle camouflage, crawling carefully between a bush and a rock. Herme pointed, ticking off the other Kurds one at a time, even calling out their names, and the five cadets rose to their feet and made their way down the slope.

“A dozen arrayed across the stream,” Nisti announced, raising both her hands. “Four to the west, and eight more coming from the north.”

“Infrared?” Timo, impressed, asked Jaziri, as Nisti’s assessment was also confirmed when the trainees revealed themselves.

“Works even in bright sunlight,” the sergeant major confirmed. “We can spot targets through canvas barriers, such as inside a tent, and even in dense underbrush. It takes a rock or metal barrier, or a stout wood wall, to screen someone from these sensors.”

“Mobility and detection are clearly impressive,” Timo acknowledged. “How about the offensive side?”

Jaziri, expecting the question, nodded. He indicated the trunk of a dead tree some two hundred meters away on the far side of the valley. “We’ve been using that for field practice. Fire away,” he said to his two young protégés.

Instantly Nisti and Herme, each holding a fist-sized stone, cocked their arms back. The woman went first, her arm a blur as she snapped off a throw. Timo fancied he heard the rock whistle through the air as, a second or so later, a cloud of dried bark flew from the trunk. The big man followed with an equally accurate throw.

“We use stones for target practice,” Jaziri admitted. “Conserves our supply of grenades. We’ll start practicing with live ones in a week or so. Herme actually killed a running deer from more than two hundred meters with a single stone throw. Sergeant Dilistan was happy to add fresh venison to our diet for a few days.”

As the rest of the training squad trickled in, the trio of GOGs went on to demonstrate additional features of the amazing suits. Nisti slipped between a couple of pine trees and, before Timo’s astonished eyes, effectively disappeared. He had to step almost to within arm’s reach before he could make out the bulky, mechanical suit—its surface had altered color, not just to match the dark green needles, but even to mimic the pattern of the branches, including irregularities such as a bare branch and a cluster of pinecones.

Herme, meanwhile, turned to the slope beside the cave mouth and sprang upward—a leap of nearly seven vertical meters that looked virtually effortless. He came to rest on a narrow ledge, reaching his arms wide to take hold of a pair of rocky outcrops. Then, like Nisti, he seemed to vanish as the suit adapted to the pattern of rocks, scree, and brush on the steep incline. He scampered upward, and only when he moved could Timo get a clear picture of his location; as soon as he froze, his image merged perfectly into the background.

“The targeting is effective, too,” Jaziri reported. “Fortunately, we have plenty of 5.56 ammunition for firearms practice. I’ve used this feature extensively: even when in motion, a shooter can designate targets simply by lining them up on the view plate and blinking.” He held up the suit to display the assault rifle barrel aligned with his right arm. “You can move through an area, paint eight or ten spots, and the suit takes over aiming. When it fires, it snaps off several shots per second, moving the barrel automatically. Biggest concern is not to fight the movement. One trainee’s already sprained his wrist. Even with small targets, we have a better than 80 percent hit rate.”

An hour later, Timo remained completely impressed with the capabilities of the suits and more than satisfied with the progress made by the team. Each recruit had had a chance to spend some time in a suit, though these three were personalized to maximize their interactive features, retinal scans, and complex programming to work with their three primary users. The other seven were shared. Two were down for maintenance.

“It may be weeks, but we’ll be getting more GOGs,” Timo assured his sergeant major. “I’ll get them up to you by chopper as fast as possible.”

“Excellent,” Jaziri replied. “Do you intend to expand this camp?”

Timo nodded. They were going to need a lot of GOG-wearing warriors.

As he climbed back into the Black Hawk, Timo felt a sense of hope and optimism, a feeling he hadn’t imagined would ever return. His nation was still surrounded by powerful, implacable foes, but he began to believe the Kurds might have a chance to fight back. He even allowed himself to believe his nation had a small chance to survive. They’d paid a high enough price already.

“Never again,” he mouthed silently to himself as horrific memories of Mahabad rose unbidden in his mind. Roughly he forced thoughts of the past aside, turning his attention to the future. He was happy that he had another visit to make in these mountains before he returned to the cesspit of his nation’s weak, vacillating government.

“We’re going to Bianza,” he told the pilot, who nodded, pressed the accelerator, and pulled back on the stick to lift them into the air.

* * * * *

Chapter 7: 21 November, Year 9

Kurdish Republic’s Eastern Frontier

Village of Bianza, 6:00 pm

No doubt drawn by the roar of the descending helicopter, Colonel Hernin ibn Karim, Ret. came from his house on the low hill dominating the village of Bianza to welcome Timo personally as the general stepped out of the Black Hawk. The old soldier had a paunch and thinning hair, but still walked like the predator he’d been.

“General,” Karim said with pleasure, offering a salute, and then stepping forward to kiss the officer on both cheeks. Although Timo Sheen felt dead tired, the village elder was effusive. “This is a rare honor! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wish it was pleasure, old friend,” Timo replied somberly, “but this is a business trip—I’ve come to ask for your help. I fear the old scourge is rising again to threaten our people.”

Karim nodded sagely, clearly unsurprised. “Even here in the hills, we get news. I heard about the tragedy in Mahabad. The mullahs are unwilling to let us live in peace, so we’ll have to forge our own, will we not?”

“Yes, we will, but it’s not going to be simple. That’s why I wanted to see you in person.”

“Come to my house. We can talk over tea,” the old veteran offered. “My wife is cooking a lamb stew as we speak.” His eyes twinkled. “I thought perhaps you smelled it, and that’s why you came.”

Timo chuckled and followed the man up the stone path that switched back and forth to reach the summit of the hill, where his flat-roofed stone house stood. Their moods turned somber as Karim brewed some chai and then settled beside Timo on his open veranda. From here, they had a view of the two precipitous ridges to either side of the river valley, and up the long trough of the depression to the east… toward Iran.

“How many of the militia captains are still active in your district?” the general asked.

Karim shrugged. “A few. There are no funds for training, and many of the young people have gone to Kirkuk or Irbil.” He looked up with a spark of interest. “Of course, if you say there’s a call to mobilize, that could change things.”

“I wish I could say that, but our president, and most—if not all—of the general staff are too timid to take any action that would give offense to Iran. As if our very existence isn’t offense enough! I bring no authorization to recruit, no promise of funding for training.”

The old man looked pensive. “Still, if they come, it’ll be right up this valley—along with many other valleys.”

“You understand the situation quite clearly,” Timo acknowledged, taking a sip of his tea.

“And you believe they will be coming, do you not?” Karim asked shrewdly.

“I have reason to believe they’ll come in the spring, after the snows melt in the lower passes.”

“What can we do?” Again, the elder shrugged, but it wasn’t a gesture of resignation; it was clear that he actually sought an answer.

“We can do what we can to train, recruit, and prepare on our own,” Timo said. “That’s the reason for my visit. I’ll be talking with the venerable elders in other border towns, men who remember what it was like in the time of Saddam, or of Daesh. Men who aren’t willing to go back to those days.”

“I’d like to think I’m such a man,” Karim declared quietly.

“I know you are,” Timo acknowledged, “and you’ve earned the respect of your countrymen with your courage and your wisdom, demonstrated on many battlefields. They’ll listen to you.”

The village elder, a veteran of many wars, nodded sagely. “Then I’ll talk to the leaders in my district,” he told the young general, “and see what we can do. Perhaps assemble rosters, at least, and spread the word among the young people to see who’ll be willing to fight. I predict there’ll be no shortage of volunteers.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Timo said sincerely. “I’ll do what I can to at least get you some supplies such as firearms and ammunition.”

“It’s too early for thanks—we’ll have to wait and see what happens. But I can’t send you back to the city with an empty stomach! My wife would never forgive me, among other reasons. Now come inside and share some stew at my humble table.”

Timo nodded and rose, tremendously grateful.

* * * * *

Chapter 8: 23 November, Year 9

Kurdish Army Headquarters,

K1 Military Base

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic, 10:00 am

General Simku Gokalp was the only member of the command staff Timo trusted to take his request seriously, so he’d asked for a meeting between just the two of them. Now, as they sat in the office of the senior general who was chief of ordnance, the younger man was already convinced he’d made a mistake. The weathered face, rendered unique by that angry, slashing scar, seemed to sag with a weariness that hadn’t been present a few weeks earlier. There was no hint in his eyes of the aggressive combat spirit that had helped him root out the last Daesh from northern Syria as a young captain. Instead, Gokalp merely looked discouraged, even resigned.

Still, the senior officer had been courteous enough when Timo called, and his aide, a female major, had been quick to serve them cups of steaming chai tea. After she departed, the older general looked at the brigadier with at least a flicker of curiosity. “Do you have some new information to bring to my attention?” he asked bluntly.

Timo had already determined not to bring up the GOGs or his private source of intelligence from Tehran. He couldn’t take the chance that Gokalp would issue a direct order for him to stand down on either front. Instead, he’d settled on a broader, more indirect approach.

“I’m not sure how new it’ll be,” he began. “If you’ve seen the intelligence reports, you know several Iranian captives and deserters have admitted to our interviewers that their commanders are planning a full-scale assault this coming spring.”

The older general waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. “Those are low-level sources. We can’t base our plans on such a slim portfolio of information.”

“Perhaps not our plans, but what about our preparedness? If we do face a massive assault in the spring, should we not be prepared to meet it with all the militia trained and ready for battle? We could have more than thirty thousand Peshmerga Militia organized to respond with a few hours warning.”

Gokalp nodded. “We could, but our president has declared that such a mobilization would be regarded by the Iranians as an act of war. Hassan feels that would in itself provide the casus belli for an invasion. We’ve been ordered to avoid making such a provocation.”

The old general sighed, then looked at Timo with a hint of his old combativeness. “Besides, would it matter? They can come at us with hundreds of thousands of men. Whether we meet them with seventy thousand or a hundred thousand, the result will be the same, except in the latter case, even more of our people will die.”

Timo bit down the anger that urged him to make an argumentative reply. Instead, he lowered his head in thought, then looked the older man in the eye. “Well, we have to make an effort, don’t we, at self-defense? Otherwise, what was the point of declaring our independence in the first place? An independence you and I both fought for,” he added.

“That’s true, but the threat of provoking an attack is real! The president’s been persuasive. We need to present to the world the case that we’re a peaceful nation, no threat to our neighbors.”

Timo was stunned that the old warhorse could even articulate such a belief. Gokalp’s time in the top echelons of government had certainly dulled his martial edge. Yet the general displayed enough of his stern presence that the younger general dared not risk provoking a personal rebuke… not now, when there was so much at stake. For several seconds, neither spoke.

“Perhaps the UN will intervene and persuade the mullahs to behave,” the older officer speculated tentatively.

Timo had to reply. “Name a single war where that’s happened.”

Another awkward silence followed.

The younger general decided to continue with his indirect approach. “If our mobilization were to be small, discreet, even clandestine… if the Iranians never learned of it… it couldn’t be such a cause, could it?”

“No… if it remained clandestine. But President Hassan feels that wouldn’t be possible. He’s not willing to take that chance.”

Timo was willing to take that chance, but he could already sense that Gokalp wasn’t about to disobey the political leader’s orders. The brigadier wouldn’t ask him to do that. “Very well,” he conceded in apparent agreement. “May I request, then, that you authorize me to at least disperse many of the small arms from our national arsenal to secure locations closer to the front? That would at least allow for a more rapid mobilization, if and when they’re needed.”

“How would the arms be secured?” Gokalp asked with an air of genuine curiosity.

“Under the auspices of veteran Peshmerga leaders who have fortified homes and compounds in the threatened areas. Hernin ibn Karim in Bianza, for example, has an armored bunker under his house. If I was authorized to provide him with M4 rifles and ammunition, he could at least react within a few hours of a border crossing. His village is only ten kilometers from Iran if you recall.”

“I do recall. Karim is a good man, though a bit long in the tooth, is he not?”

“When I spoke to him last night, he showed the same martial spirit he always has,” Timo noted. Unlike this old man sitting across from me, he couldn’t help thinking. “You probably recall that I made a recent tour of the borderlands. I also spoke with Fermin from Quwayr, and Asin in the southwest, as well as a dozen other men. They’re all willing to take on this responsibility.”

Gokalp thought some more, and finally nodded. “We have plenty of rifles and rounds in the national armory—one legacy of three decades of war. There may be some benefit to a limited dispersal. Very well, you may make the arrangements. Be sure to pass the inventories and requisitions through Major Rubad.” He gestured, and Timo saw that the aide, obviously Major Rubad, had returned to the office, and she’d left the door open for his departure.

He rose and saluted, grateful for at least that crumb of permission. He’d requested “small arms,” and Gokalp had, by implication, limited his approval to rifles and ammunition, but he hadn’t explicitly ordered that limitation. The young general was glad to leave the meeting before any more restrictions could be placed upon the authorization.

As he walked out of the building, Timo reminded himself that, compared to a tank or an APC, anything from field artillery to machine guns and RPGs could be considered “small.”

* * * * *

Chapter 9: 24 November, Year 9

K6 Military Training Base, 1:10 pm

Aza Gazi turned seventeen with his arm in a cast. The stocky, brown-haired youth enlisted the same day the doctor pronounced his gunshot-broken arm healed. It still ached occasionally, but that was something he would never admit. After a few weeks of basic training, he’d been assigned to a small base on the Syrian border, where his military education would continue. His rank was provisional private, and he was considered more of an apprentice soldier than a real one. A month later, he was promoted to full private.

A week after that, the grizzled veteran, Rafiq Jaziri, spoke to the entire base. He spoke about the Republic, honor, and upcoming dangerous times. It was all rather meaningless, and Aza wondered why a member of General Sheen’s personal staff was mouthing platitudes at an obscure border post. Then the word began spreading that Jaziri was really there to recruit for some special force to be commanded by Timo Sheen himself. Aza had to insist twice that his sergeant put in his name, even after being told there was no chance a still wet-behind-the-ears recruit would be chosen over one of their many veterans.

Worried the sergeant was right, Aza hung around the noncoms’ mess until he saw Jaziri walk out. He waited on the sidewalk, hesitant to interrupt anything as fear inspiring as three sergeants talking to a sergeant major. Somehow, Jaziri saw him and stopped. He looked at Aza, saying nothing for a long time. The young Kurd could feel himself begin to sweat.

“You were in the garage,” the old warrior said softly. “You had an axe.”

Almost unable to speak. Aza nodded. “I want to volunteer,” he blurted out, with his voice almost cracking.

“You had courage,” the sergeant major observed, glancing at the other noncommissioned officers. When they looked at Aza, it was in a way they hadn’t done before. Aza felt proud. Then Jaziri patted him gently, and a little sadly, on the arm that had been broken, turned, and walked away.

Two days later, it was posted that three of the garrison were being given a special assignment. Everyone knew it was with Jaziri and Sheen, but no one understood why Jaziri had chosen two of their unquestioned best and one still wet-behind-the-ears recruit.

* * * * *

Chapter 10: 27 December, Year 9

GOG Center Alpha, 7:35 am

“We’ll be experimenting with live grenades for the next phase of training,” Sergeant Major Jaziri explained to his increasingly capable platoon of GOG recruits. “For this exercise, Nisti, Herme, and I will conduct the initial operations. The rest of you will cycle through over the next few days.”

Aza watched intently. He’d been in the camp for almost a month, and still couldn’t believe he was there. The veterans had been generous, taking him aside and explaining things about being a Peshmerga he hadn’t understood. One had teased him because of his age, but had stopped after a few days, and all of them called him “xortekî ciwan,” the kid. The battle-scarred Peshmerga had accepted him, and that made the young man proud.

The three Kurds had already climbed into their GOGs and activated their suits’ sensory, mobility, and weapon systems, a process that took them less than two minutes. While not quite like throwing on trousers and a tunic, suiting up grew more familiar every day. Between all the physical components of the suit, many of which were automated, and the powering-up and calibrating of the computerized aspects, it took most of the trainees about fifteen minutes to be fully combat ready. Jaziri had declared his intention to get that time down below ten in the near future.

Now the veteran NCO led his demo team to the area he’d designated for live-fire target practice. It was a small canyon diverging from the main valley, less than a kilometer in length, and only a hundred meters wide. There were cliffs ranging from two to four hundred meters high on the sides and at the end wall. A long, pluming waterfall trailed from the latter elevation, while small groves of pine and oak fought to survive along the rocky floor.

The three GOGs moved with long strides, while the 22 other trainees followed, with only occasional stumbles over the two-kilometer distance to the mouth of the canyon. The first Kurd-built suits had arrived only a few days earlier. One had already failed, but there remained exactly enough for each to get their own. Jaziri was worried that three more were ominously showing the effects of their hasty manufacture.

The Peshmerga moved through a chilly autumn day under overcast skies but were protected from the cold by their GOGs. Once at the destination, the entire unit took up position on a low elevation near the left side of the cavern entrance. From there, they commanded a field of fire over the whole canyon, with a thirty-meter cliff dropping to the canyon floor directly before the firing line. Jaziri and his team had set up dozens of homemade targets: deadfalls, live trees, and boulders marked with small spots of paint. They ranged from a hundred meters to objects at the far end of the canyon, more than eight hundred meters away.

Together, the trainees had expended thousands of rounds of assault rifle ammunition from this spot as they’d learned to manage the suits’ targeting systems and automated fire-control features. This would be their first chance to use the grenade feature that formed the suits’ heaviest antipersonnel weaponry.

“The ammo belts are only a quarter full; each of us will have four rounds,” Jaziri explained. “We’re not looking for rapid fire—not yet. Take your time aiming. We’ll be working our way up to targets nearly a kilometer away, but we’ll start closer.”

The sergeant major stepped to the edge of the cliff, perched on the brink of the thirty-meter drop, and used his laser rangefinder to mark a boulder about three hundred meters away. The spot showed up clearly to him, enhanced as it was by the suit’s viewscreen.

“Can you see the mark?” he asked his GOG-suited trainees. He looked directly at Aza, who nodded. A series of clicks and affirmations from the other trainees followed. Jaziri next indicated a second target—this one a dead tree stump—a hundred meters beyond the first. “I’ll take two shots.”

He raised his right arm and took one of the grenades that popped up from behind his shoulder. Ignoring the natural urge to eye the target visually as if he was throwing a javelin or a ball, the sergeant froze dramatically. Jaziri had spent hours practicing late at night to master his GOG. “I’m letting the suit’s targeting mechanism take over,” he explained. “Marking the target with a visual confirmation—a hard blink—but letting the suit determine trajectory.”

The outline of the rock on his faceplate abruptly blinked red, and he flicked his hand in its glove to signal the launch action, using all four fingers instead of the index finger trigger for a rifle shot. His arm, enhanced by the tiny motors in the suit, whipped through a throwing motion, and the cylindrical missile flashed through the air to strike the rock dead center. Even as the crack of the explosion carried back to the Kurds, Jaziri was taking another grenade from his shoulder pack and blinking to select the next target. In seconds, he’d whipped off a second throw, and a tree trunk more than three hundred and fifty meters away vanished in a puff of fire, smoke, bark, and debris.

“Once you master the grenades, you’ll begin to train with these as well,” the sergeant major announced. Then he stood with his legs apart and braced as he lifted his left arm and turned it 90 degrees. His GOG locked solid, and one of the first railgun arrows ever launched sped toward a larger rock near the first target. There was a loud crack nearby, followed by the sound of the two-meter-wide boulder splitting in half as a third-of-a-meter-long rod of depleted uranium slammed into it. By the time everyone looked back at Jaziri, his suit had relaxed, and the noncom was smiling broadly.

“Now, Nisti. Take two shots,” the sergeant major instructed, opening his visor so the young soldiers could see his face. The young woman, dramatically oversized in her GOG, stepped to the edge of the precipice and designated two targets, a bush and a small rock, with her laser targeting beam.

She turned, her face invisible behind the plexiglass mask, to regard Jaziri, and the sergeant smiled. “Fire away.”

Raising her arm and taking a grenade, Nisti pitched it with that whiplike arm motion. It struck the target and turned the bush into a cloud of twigs and leaves. She wasn’t quite as fast as Jaziri as she cocked and threw the second round, and this one missed the small rock by a half meter, but it still exploded dramatically.

“Well done,” the sergeant major said, not at all displeased. “Now, Herme.”

The giant Kurd, in his even larger suit, stepped forward. He turned toward his teacher. “I choose my own targets, as well?”

“Of course.”

Herme put his left foot forward in a classic right-handed thrower’s stance, bracing it on a rock at the end of the precipice—and the rock gave way with a sudden spill of small stones and larger chunks of the mountainside. Before anyone could react, the Peshmerga pitched forward over the lip of the cliff. Jaziri flung himself onto his chest, reaching out a second too late. He could only look down in dismay as the big GOG crashed into a rock fifteen meters below, bouncing and rolling another forty to the bottom of the cliff. As he came to rest on his back, the first grenade in his backpack discharged, the violent explosion sending the big man and his suit lurching like a person having a terrible seizure.

Jaziri was already moving, springing to his feet, bounding down the steep slope to the side of the cliff. His suit’s sensors showed him that Nisti was right behind him as they bounded like giant monkeys down to the valley floor in four or five leaps. He saw that the explosion had blasted Herme over onto his back; his faceplate was closed and blank as the sergeant major bent over him.

He used the suit’s radio telemetry to connect to Herme’s software so he could view the big man’s biometrics—data he expected to show a flat, lifeless line. Instead, he perceived that the wounded man was still breathing, though his blood pressure was dangerously low and falling fast.

“Help me,” he told Nisti, as she was already reaching to release the clasps securing Herme’s helmet to the rest of the suit. Gently they pulled the headgear off to see that the man’s eyes were open, but dim and unfocused. His forehead was bruised, and the shoulder of the suit where the grenade case had been fastened was completely shredded. The sergeant triggered the suit’s built-in pain injection, and then gently removed the injured Peshmerga’s GOG. Herme was bleeding badly and going into shock.

* * *

Aza and the others watched from above. Herme had spoken to Aza only a few times, but the youth found himself deeply concerned. The big Peshmerga was one of them. Later, the young trainee would remember this as the time when he realized he was part of a team, a brother.

But for the moment, at least, he was just happy Herme Karzan lived.

* * * * *

Chapter 11: 28 December, Year 9

Tang Industries Corporate Center

Roger Tang welcomed Timo into his penthouse office on the fifth floor of the Tang Industries office building, miles from the research center and close to the capital buildings. Together, the two men stood in the northeast corner of the glass-enclosed space, looking toward the distant mountains—concealed now behind a menacing mass of dark clouds—and thinking about the Iranian border beyond those heights. Finally, Tang pointed toward a large compound of low buildings only a few kilometers away. The area was surrounded by high fencing and had the look of a modern factory, with reflective glass windows set high in the walls, which were themselves made of a shiny metal veneer.

The TI sign and logo, barely visible at this distance, were displayed on signs near the grounds’ several entrances. Several trucks were moving through the lot, and Timo watched as one of them backed down a ramp and disappeared into an underground space.

“I like to keep my loading dock out of sight,” the industrialist said with a grin. “The fewer prying eyes, the better.”

“Is that your battery plant?” the Kurdish general asked. He knew the Tang Industries compound had been the scene of tremendous construction activity for the last few years, but he didn’t know for certain what Tang had been doing there.

“Only about 25 percent of the space is used for battery production, but yes, that’s the initial activity. We bring in raw ore from the mountains, and make the circuits and casings here, but for now, other components are manufactured in Europe and the US. Within six months, we’ll be independent of outside sourcing.”

If we’re all still here in six months. The thought rose from the dark void inside Timo and threatened to overwhelm him once more. The young officer was only able to push through it by focusing on the job he had to do. It took an effort to respond.

“I’m glad to have it close,” Timo finally answered, “but what are you using the rest of the space for?”

“That’s where I’ll be assembling your GOGs,” Tang said proudly. “It’s taking six days to assemble each one by hand, and even then, we’ve had a 50 percent failure rate. Painfully, I’m going to shut down assembly until we can automate and control the quality. The two dozen you’ve got will be all for a while. I won’t be responsible for someone dying because their GOG failed. We’re working to get improved dies and stamps up and running right now. We have computer equipment and software coming from Israel—that should be arriving today or tomorrow. It’ll be two weeks before the production line is reopened, but the work’s proceeding well.”

“I hope so,” Timo acknowledged sincerely. “The suits have performed well, even exceeded our expectations. But we lost one of them to accident.”

“What happened?” Tang asked in genuine concern.

“One of our trainees took a long fall, and his grenade pack detonated on impact. There was only one more in the pack. He’s lucky to be alive; he was airlifted to the Central Medical Hospital today. The suit was torn up pretty badly, but it protected him from a fatal injury.”

“Well, we don’t have to wait until we start production to increase your stock. I finally have the other ten US-made GOGs on the way from DARPA; they should be here within the next week. They’ll be routed through Amsterdam and Athens. I have reliable contacts in customs at both places, so they’ll be able to avoid prying eyes. Not as good as the new ones will be, but similar enough to train on. We can arm them within a week.”

“We’ll need enough bases to ready a Peshmerga for every new suit you can supply.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Tang pledged. “Do you have any more information about how much time you have before you’ll need them? Bringing production online for something this complicated will be slow.”

“Indications are that we’ll have the winter to make ready, but not much longer than that.”

Tang’s wishes for “Good luck!” still echoed in Timo’s ears as he drove himself back to army headquarters. Interesting, he thought, that I feel comfortable discussing the details of my plans, and the enemy’s intentions, with this American, yet I can’t even bring up those details with my own general staff or national president.

Still, the young general continued to do as much as he could on his own initiative. Burying himself in preparations kept him from thinking about those he’d lost. He worked long hours, staying up until forced to sleep and returning at first light. Back in his office, Timo went over the official reports from his chief quartermaster, detailing the materiel that was steadily being trucked to the outposts along the frontier. The first shipment—which had included two hundred and fifty assault rifles, as well as ammunition and hand grenades—had been dispatched to Bianza two days earlier. He looked over a message from Hernin ibn Karim, accepting delivery, with the erstwhile militia commander indicating adamantly that the weapons would only be secured in his bunker, kept safe for when they were needed.

Unwritten on the inventories, however, were the dozen heavy machine guns, ten mortars, and four pieces of light field artillery Timo had also managed to whisk out of the armory. They wouldn’t show up on the lists provided to General Gokalp’s staff, but Timo was confident that Karim would know just what to do with them. He’d also managed to dispatch several dozen sets of night vision goggles and a number of rocket-propelled grenades and launchers.

He and the elder colonel had established a secure communication link and discussed their plans. Karim had been speaking directly, and through a network of trusted contacts, with veteran Peshmerga in his own and surrounding villages. At least a hundred seasoned fighters were ready to do battle, and each one of them had pledged to recruit five or ten young men and women who could also be counted on when they were needed.

For now, they were being trained near their own villages in infantry tactics and small arms use by the veteran tutors, avoiding even the appearance of any kind of massive military preparation. And Bianza was just the beginning: on Timo’s desk right now were orders for three more shipments, more or less identical, to be dispatched to other communities lying directly on the major mountain passes leading to Iran.

The general’s work was interrupted by a telephone call from a blocked number. Few men even know the phone existed, much less the number. Curious, he opened the call. “Speak.”

“I just spoke with Raptor.” It was Duhoki’s voice. The identification sent a tingle of anticipation along Timo’s spine. He and his intelligence chief usually met personally; a phone call indicated a matter of some urgency.

“I’m listening.”

“The enemy special forces will be making another raid tonight. ETA is midnight, and the target is Karabesh Dam. Insertion and withdrawal will likely be by helicopter.” With that, Captain Duhoki broke the connection.

In the same breath, Timo was on his feet, striding to the large map of his nation that covered one whole wall of his office. He glanced at the clock; it was nearing 1700 hours, so they had seven hours until the raiders would touch down. He remembered the dam, and if his memory was accurate, this was a chance at a rare opportunity. Timo felt a flush of adrenaline and studied the map more closely.

Sure enough, he spotted the Karabesh Dam on the map, across a narrow river valley where it created a reservoir in the Zagros Mountain foothills. He pressed his finger against the spot and looked closer. The dam was also a bridge and represented the only crossing of the valley for a long distance in either direction. It was a strategic site on at least two levels—power generation and ground transportation.

His finger trailed a few dozen centimeters up the map, confirming his initial hope. His heart beat a little faster at the realization: though the road connection was inevitably serpentine, GOG Center Alpha was close enough to the dam that, hopefully, Sergeant Major Jaziri could get there by midnight.

* * *

Leaving the GOG Center Alpha

Rafiq Jaziri couldn’t escape the sense of personal responsibility as he watched the medical helicopter chatter away, carrying the battered, broken body of Herme Karzan. I failed him. There was no other way to view it. He recalled the sick sense of fear as he and Nisti transported Karzan’s battered body back to the camp. The rest of the trainees had sprinted back along the precipitous foot trail.

Jaziri himself had pulled the bloodied form of Herme Karzan from the wreckage of his suit, amazed to find that the man was still breathing. He’d carried him back to camp, where Corporal Rubad, their medical technician, had stabilized his breathing and administered plasma to replace lost blood. Because of the late hour, they’d been forced to keep him in the tent overnight, then stormy weather had delayed the medical flight for most of the next day. It was nearly evening before he’d been evacuated.

Exhausted and discouraged, Jaziri made his way back to the camp’s main compound, where the rest of the Kurds had gathered listlessly to eat a meal of hummus, bread, and a goat meat/vegetable mix slathered in a yoghurt sauce. It was a staple, and quite good, but no one seemed to have any enthusiasm for the meal.

“Sergeant Major—a call for you on the command line!” Jaziri looked up from the table, surprised at the urgency in the voice of the comm sergeant who’d just pulled open the door of the tent. “It’s General Sheen,” she added quietly as the elder NCO hurried past her, taking the satellite phone she held out for him.

“Jaziri here!” he snapped.

“Rafiq! You have two good, armed DARPA GOGs there, correct?”

“Yes, sir. The third seems to be a total loss. Private Karzan was just flown out on the evacuation helicopter.” As he made the report, he felt a glimmer of surprise—the general was known for being solicitous about his soldiers’ welfare, and normally that would’ve been the first thing he’d ask about. There was clearly an important reason for the call; Jaziri’s senses tingled with anticipation.

“Good, good. Do you have charged batteries for the suits?”

“Yes—we keep a set of spares that are always ready to go.” Now the sergeant major felt a thrill of anticipation. Timo’s next words confirmed his hopes.

“We have word of a raid by the Revolutionary Guards. Their target is the dam at Karabesh. Do you know the place?”

“I’ve heard of it; I can find it,” Jaziri asserted. “Is the intel reliable?”

“The best we have,” Timo declared. “That’s all I can say. The raiders are supposed to land at midnight for another of those hit-and-run attacks that have been happening along the border. I expect they’ll come in by chopper. From the map in front of me, it looks like you might be able to get there in six hours or so. Do you have a trainee who’s combat ready for the second suit?”

“Corporal Khan has checked out well on every aspect of the training. I have complete confidence in her.”

“Very good. I won’t keep you any longer. Take one of the Humvees and a driver and see if the two of you can make this a memorable night for those Iranian devils. One concern…” General Sheen paused, then finished, “we can’t let any information regarding the GOGs leak. There can be no prisoners and no survivors.”

“Right, General. I understand perfectly, sir,” Jaziri finished, unconsciously standing straighter.

It was time for some revenge.

* * *

24 Kilometers from the Iranian Border

Karabesh Dam, KR, 8:00 pm

Jaziri had been a fighting man for more than forty years. In the early days, dodging the forays of Saddam’s lethal guardsmen, he’d climbed steep ridges, crossed dry wastelands, and run along dry streambeds with an ease that caused his comrades to admire and praise his graceful movements. His endurance had been legendary, and his speed and dexterity had impressed young Peshmerga of both genders. He’d eluded pursuers, executed ambushes, and maneuvered across wide stretches of terrain with a sleek agility that was the envy of his comrades and the terror of his enemies. Now, of course, he was an old man, bent and arthritic, and he’d long known—and even grudgingly accepted—that those days were behind him.

Yet never in all those years, he reflected, had he moved with the speed, the grace, the sheer power as he did within his GOG, power that carried him and Nisti Khan up and over the vertical precipice that stood between the shoulder of the roadway where their Humvee had stopped and the deep ravine where the Karabesh Dam formed a small reservoir on the river of the same name.

It was a strategic target. The bridge on top of the dam carried traffic to and from the frontier over the otherwise impassable gorge; there was no alternate passage for dozens of kilometers in either direction. Their driver had brought them as close as she dared but had taken care to park where the intervening terrain blocked line of sight to the dam.

The GOGs powered the Kurds’ legs at better than fifteen klicks an hour as the two very different Peshmerga scaled the height, veering easily around clifflike shoulders of stone, and scampering up slopes of loose scree that clattered down behind them, but didn’t do anything to impede their passage. The tumbling of small rocks sounded loud in his ears, but Jaziri knew from experience that noise was amplified by the suit’s microphone and earphones. He left the volume up because on a night filled with low clouds and occasional snow, his first clue to the enemy’s approach would be auditory.

And, indeed, at the moment the two fighters crested the ridge, he heard the steady thrumming of helicopter engines, multiple machines just winding down from powered flight to idle. They both paused, crouching in the dark to take in the scene. Their suits had taken the default flat black that rendered them essentially invisible in the shadow-filled night.

“There,” Nisti Khan whispered, the sound carrying clearly and precisely through the GOGs’ interconnected comm net. She pointed into the gorge, where the flat water of a narrow reservoir reflected the infinite brightness of a night sky illuminated by billions of stars and a slim, crescent moon that cast no real light. She sounded tense, but in control. This wasn’t her first fight. They were both nervous about living up to their general’s expectations.

Jaziri nodded. The Iranian helicopters glowed warm red through the IR-enhanced view on his HUD. Two had landed on their side of the bridge, while the third was across the way. Already, he could see smaller shapes as enemy soldiers debouched from the ships, spreading to close on the dam from both sides. “Three machines. Perhaps sixty men,” he assessed, making a quick count of eighteen soldiers rushing from one aircraft.

“Should we take out the choppers from here?” Khan asked.

In truth, Jaziri judged, all three machines were within the range they’d practiced two days earlier, though the one across the valley was at extreme range. He thought the two below them, rotors still spinning, could, with a high probability of success, be destroyed by a couple of well-thrown grenades from the crest of the ridge. The third, however, on the other side of the gorge, was most problematic—there was a chance of success, but also a chance of failure. He wanted to make sure the pilot had no chance to lift off from the ground and report what had attacked them.

“No,” the sergeant major determined. “We close in until we can take out all three birds with the first salvo. Remember to aim for the engines or the fuel tanks—don’t waste a grenade against the hull. Then we go after the men.”

“No survivors,” the petite female warrior noted; she knew Jaziri well, and it wasn’t a question.

The pair started down the slope toward the bridge, moving with a little more caution to conceal their approach. The dam was perhaps forty meters high on the dry side, and its top spanned a hundred meters or so from one side of the gorge to the other. The waters of the reservoir lapped barely two or three meters below the crest of the dam. From their view, the low side of the dam lay to the right, the reservoir to the left.

A paved, two-lane roadway followed the slight curve of the dam across the gorge. A wide shoulder, large enough for a dozen large trucks to park, provided a flat space at the near end of the dam, and that was where the two nearest helicopters waited. The flat surface on the far side of the dam was smaller; the third chopper had settled there. Like the two nearest, its engine idled, and the blades rotated slowly.

Jaziri leaped down past a jutting rock, his knees flexing from the force of his landing. They’d both learned from Herme Karvan’s accident and carefully controlled their speed on the steep descent. Their deliberation also prevented the release of a noisy rockslide that would betray their approach prematurely. As it was, the two Peshmerga rapidly but quietly approached the bottom of the slope until they were only a few dozen meters above the broad shoulder where the two helicopters idled. They took shelter behind a large rock and leaned out, black shadows in the black night.

“They have the road covered,” Khan observed, her words clear in Jaziri’s ears, though inaudible beyond the electronic comm gear of the suits. The old man noticed a heavy machine gun being hastily set up a short distance down the road, just before a sharp turn brought the route into view from the bridge. Any vehicles coming up the road would be easy prey for the automatic gun and its massive slugs.

“Good thing we got word when we did,” Jaziri said. They both knew their Humvee was parked just out of sight down the road. The driver’s careful approach had saved them from driving, unsuited and unprepared, into the gun’s field of fire. He looked across the gorge. “They have another one setting up to guard that approach.”

“Important targets,” his companion noted. Her voice had steadied now that they were in contact with the enemy.

Moving fluidly and aided by the almost silent motors powering the limbs of the suits, the fighters edged around the flat space where the road widened before entering the bridge. They could see enemy sappers on the roadway atop the dam, dropping satchel charges into the water on the reservoir side of the dam. Each charge was suspended from a long cable, and there were dozens of the heavy cases being carried from the three helicopters by streams of Iranian soldiers. Jaziri wasn’t sure they had enough explosives set to destroy the sturdy dam, but he wasn’t about to let them try.

“The range is still pretty long for the third mullah chopper,” Nisti Khan noted, eyeing the machine on the far side of the gorge.

“I’ll get closer,” Jaziri said. “When I fire, you take out the two in front of us.”

Khan nodded, and as one of the cylindrical grenades popped out of her shoulder harness, she took it in her hand, ready to throw. Another of the explosive missiles ejected partially, ready for the second shot.

The raiders, probably special forces troops of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, projected an air of professional competence, no doubt honed slightly by the tension of their mission and the knowledge that they were committing sabotage deep inside a foreign country. A few NCOs barked commands here and there, while an officer or two stood beside each chopper, but by and large, the men proceeded as if they were well trained and confident. As the last of the charges were removed from the helicopters, technicians settled down on the bridge and hooked up the cables to a battery-powered detonator.

Jaziri cleared his faceplate to transparency and looked at the young woman beside him. She did the same, meeting his gaze with a frank appraisal of her own. He saw no fear in her expression—instead, she looked back at him with a thrilled, almost eager stir of anticipation. She, too, had been one of the twelve at Mahabad. She’d witnessed the deaths of Timo’s wife and son.

As if reading his thoughts, she whispered, “Never again,” her eyes shining.

The sergeant major nodded. “Now!” he hissed and leaped from cover with a powerful assist from the GOG’s leg motors. He landed a dozen feet from the boulder and immediately broke into a run, pulling a grenade from his harness and keying up the targeting system for the rifle built into his suit’s forearm. He sprinted onto the bridge, blinking quickly to activate his computer to select human targets. His first was the chief explosive technician, and the half dozen other sappers and soldiers in his path. His arm came out, and he gestured with his index finger to commence fire.

The barrel on his forearm stuttered in three round bursts with dazzling speed. The first bullets cut down the chief sapper; the suit’s guidance motors took over, aligning his arm with the second target, and repeating the short burst. In short order, he cut down all the targeted men, and by then, he was standing in the middle of the bridge within easy range of the third chopper.

He saw a flash of light brighten the gorge and heard the explosion behind him; though the suit protected him from the blast wave, he knew Khan had destroyed the first helicopter. The second went up in a burst of fire as he drew back his arm, again using the suit’s guidance system to target his throw. The grenade left his hand with nearly the velocity of a rocket-propelled round and struck the third chopper right in the turbine engine at the base of the slowly rotating drive shaft.

The flash would normally have blinded him, but the faceplate’s instantaneous shielding response muted the brightness. He saw details such as the helicopter rotor flying upward and the fuselage filling with light and flame as the fuel tank succumbed to the nearby blast. Then the entire machine exploded into shards of flying metal and a churning cloud of furiously burning aviation fuel. The two officers standing beside the chopper vanished in the hellish explosion. The explosions rang painfully in his ears, and the noncom remembered to turn down the volume on his GOG. Intense orange light reflected from the looming cliffs overhead.

Only then did Jaziri realize he was drawing fire from the startled, but battle-worthy Iranians on the far side of the bridge. Several rounds plunked into the chest and arms of his GOG; he felt the impacts and was knocked back a step or two, but none of them reached his skin. The liquid pockets of body armor hardened instantly when struck, absorbing the impact, and spreading it across a larger area. As the Kurd raised his arms a second later, he could feel the hardened plates already returning to flexibility. A quick glance behind showed Nisti Khan was charging past the two choppers she’d destroyed, firing her arm gun as her lithe form virtually danced between the frantic shapes of her confused enemies.

Setting himself against the annoyance of small-arms fire, Jaziri looked for the second heavy machine gun, the one that had been stationed to defend the road on the far side of the bridge. None too soon—the crew was already wheeling the barrel around, trying to line up with the large, inhuman-looking target in the middle of the bridge.

The sergeant major wanted no part of testing his suit against the impact of those massive slugs; he sprayed the three-man machine gun crew with a deadly patter of small-arms rounds, dropping the trio of raiders in under a second.

The three helicopters burned fiercely, sending shadows flickering and bright bursts of light flaring up the rocky walls of the gorge. The bridge and the dam stood out in clear relief, and the Iranians must certainly have realized their ride home had been completely obliterated—they’d fight with the desperation of trapped, veteran soldiers. Trusting Khan to protect his back, Jaziri looked for targets in front of him, and quickly spotted a dozen or more riflemen either on the bridge or moving toward it. More of those annoying pinpricks buzzed against his suit—the enemy had the range, and their fire steadily increased in intensity.

Dropping to one knee to lower his profile, he raised his right arm and triggered several bursts manually. The rounds sparked and dinged off the pavement and the bridge buttresses, causing most of the enemy shooters to drop behind cover, though he muttered a curse as he failed to see any Iranians get hit. A few raiders lay prone on the pavement at the end of the bridge, rifles leveled at the Kurd; this time Jaziri took the time to mark his targets with the suit’s computer. When he snapped off a series of automated shots, he saw with satisfaction that all four of his targets had dropped their guns and lay still.

More shots slapped into him, this time from Iranians who’d taken cover behind the stone walls that framed the bridge entrance. A round cracked off his faceplate with startling force, and he wasn’t able to pick out the shooter as the Iranians had taken to popping up, firing, and then dropping behind cover again.

The sergeant major decided the situation called for a temporary retreat and sprang backward to the end of the bridge, where the two helicopters were burning themselves into charred metal. He spotted Nisti Khan to the left—she’d obviously raced through the enemy position. The number of bodies suggested she’d fired with great effect, and a quick glance confirmed that the heavy machine gun on this side of the road had been neutralized by her attack as well.

“I’m coming back toward you,” Jaziri told the woman over the commlink. “Pincer maneuver.”

“Roger,” she replied, immediately starting back into the shambles of bodies and burning choppers she’d made of the landing zone. A number of the special forces, more than a dozen, crouched or knelt and raised their rifles to target the female Peshmerga—they never saw the second Kurd coming from behind them. This time Jaziri painted the maximum of ten enemy soldiers onto his targeting program; when he started to shoot, every one of them went down with multiple hits.

Other Iranians had tried to take cover in the large rocks adjacent to the road at the base of the slope—the same place Khan and Jaziri had hidden before they’d opened the attack. The small woman in the lethal suit stalked slowly forward from the left, shooting at individual targets as they came into view. Fortunately, the suit’s night vision detection revealed them as plainly as daylight.

“Above you—left side!” Jaziri barked as a couple shooters popped up from behind a rock that had concealed them from Nisti Khan’s view. She quickly spun and shot them down while the sergeant major picked out a few more targets to the right, men who’d fallen back from the horrific black apparition.

As the two Kurds met at the base of the bridge, the remaining raiders on this side—ten or twelve at the most—broke from the landing at a run, sprinting along a track that circled, fairly level, along the valley wall above the reservoir. A series of shots dropped each of them, either to lie motionless on the track or tumble lifelessly down the steep slope until they splashed into the water.

“We’re done over here,” Nisti said in satisfaction. “Any mullahs on the other side?”

“There’s a dozen, maybe more, that took shelter behind that wall,” Jaziri replied. “We can’t shoot them from here.”

“Let’s go there, then,” the woman suggested pragmatically.

“Right. We’ll cross the bridge at a sprint,” he said. “Be on the lookout for anyone who might be ready to fire an RPG or something else. These suits are surprisingly good at stopping small arms, but if something heavy comes at us, drop prone.”

“Or jump out of the way?” she asked, the tone of her voice light, almost playful.

He grimaced, not knowing if she was joking. “Whatever it takes,” he begrudged. In fact, he could picture her dancing out of the way of an incoming RPG round just as gracefully as she’d scampered through the enemy outpost between two burning helicopters.

“Look,” she interrupted, pointing down the road leading in and out the far side of the gorge. A pair of headlights had appeared, lurching along; the growl of a diesel truck engine in low gear reached them through the still night.

“Probably some farmer or tradesmen heading for the market in Banoka,” the sergeant major suggested. “They don’t know they’re about to run into a squad of Iranian raiders.”

“Who’d dearly love to get their hands on that truck as a possible transport out of here for them,” Khan observed acutely.

Jaziri blinked; he hadn’t thought of that, but she was right. And the truck was barely five hundred meters from the other side of the bridge. “Let’s go, then,” he ordered. “You take the right side of the bridge; I’ll take the left. And we move fast.”

The Peshmerga in their GOGs crouched low and moved toward the terminus of the bridge. “Look, they’ve seen the truck,” Nisti pointed out as several figures broke from the cover of the stone wall and ran down the road. The truck, meanwhile, ground to a stop; no doubt the driver could see the still-glowing hulks of the burning helicopters and wanted to think about his situation.

For the second time, Jaziri sprinted onto the bridge, expecting to lead Khan across the hundred-meter span—only to see her streak past to his right, moving like a gazelle. Small-arms fire sparked from the Iranians who were waiting for them, but the two Peshmerga crossed the distance so quickly, they only felt the tug or crack of a few impacts.

And then they were past the wall at the far side of the bridge, where more than a dozen Iranian riflemen had taken shelter. Jaziri spun left, Khan turned right, and in a few seconds of spraying automatic rounds, they’d massacred the entire squad. Jaziri saw Khan look down the road, where three or four surviving raiders had made it halfway to the truck; they were clearly outlined in the headlights.

“You take those,” he said, immensely confident in his young comrade’s capabilities. “I’ll clean up around here.”

She raced down the road while Jaziri searched through the bodies and the wreckage of the helicopters. Thirty seconds later, he heard three short bursts of automatic rifle fire. By the time he’d confirmed that all the raiders were dead, she’d come back up the road to join him.

“The truck driver got out of his cab and ran down the road screaming when he saw me in his headlights,” she said wryly. “I imagine he’ll have some tales to tell.”

Looking at his comrade in her flat black combat suit, with the plastic faceplate and irregular straps of gear, ammunition, and weaponry, Jaziri could only agree.

“And these fellows?” Nisti asked, pointing to the corpses littering both sides of the bridge. “No survivors?”

“None,” Jaziri agreed. “I think we’ll have given the enemy something to think about when these men don’t come home.”

“It’s like General Sheen said in Mahabad,” the woman observed. Jaziri nodded and finished the thought in chorus with Nisti Khan as they spoke the two words out loud.

“Never again.”

* * * * *

Chapter 12: 5 January, Year 10

Zagros Mountain Range

Kurdish Republic

GOG Center Alpha

“Corporal Nisti Khan, step forward!”

Timo stood stiffly at attention as he barked the command to the double rank of trainees, each of whom mirrored his rigid posture. Being at the camp had lightened Timo’s mood. Someday, he’d lead these Peshmerga; there was even hope of dying in the defense of his people. The early winter air was cool, and thin patches of snow survived in the shadows. There was barely any wind, and the winter sun was bright. The troops stood before the cave mouth at the GOG training site, and Sergeant Major Jaziri, also at attention—as far as his battered frame allowed—stood just forward and to the left of the general.

The slight young woman took a long stride, stopped, and saluted. Jaziri stepped forward to pin rank to her collar as Timo continued, “In recognition of your heroism and initiative during the incident at the Karabesh Dam, a grateful republic grants you this honor, and you are promoted to the rank of sergeant.

“And you are hereby awarded the Medal of Saladin,” the brigadier general announced, invoking the name of the most famous Kurd in their people’s long history. “Congratulations, Sergeant. At ease, all of you.”

Jaziri then lifted a thin red ribbon over her head, allowing the shiny gold medallion, a symbol of the highest level of gallantry in the Army of the Kurdish Republic, to rest upon her chest.

Timo looked at the group of young Peshmerga with sincere pride. “You’ve all done well in the first stage of this process. Today, we’ll deliver four more DARPA-made suits—er, GOGs—to this training center. Tomorrow, the helicopters will bring another two dozen trainees. They’ll work with some of you to get checked out on the suits, just as the lot of you have over the last weeks. Within a few weeks, we’ll have our own GOGs, and each of you will be fitted for one.”

A ripple of excitement, palpable to the general, traveled through the ranks of young warriors. “We’ll keep training and preparing for battle, so we’ll be ready when more suits become available. Roger Tang has promised six suits a week, beginning next month. He hopes to double that within three months and be producing hundreds each month in a year.”

Timo felt he had to add a sobering postscript. “Our home is threatened. The mullahs can’t bear the contrast with a neighbor. Their people see it. That threatens them. If you believe in Allah,” he told the Peshmerga, “I encourage you pray to him that the GOGs arrive in time to make a difference!”

An hour later, he, Jaziri, and the twelve trainees transferring to the new camp climbed into the two Black Hawk helicopters at the landing zone. The aircraft had brought in the new suits and the brigadier general earlier in the day. A third chopper was already en route to the new training site, bearing the five additional DARPA suits Roger Tang had been able to provide.

Timo and Jaziri donned helmets with headsets so they could talk during the noisy flight. “Another war, my friend. Are you ready to do this all over again?” the officer asked.

“As many times as necessary,” the veteran NCO replied.

“Good. For this session, I’d like you to take on a special pupil, if you will.”

“Of course, sir.”

Jaziri had left the obvious question unspoken, so Timo finished the thought. “I’ve taken ten days of leave—’bereavement’ leave—so I have some time before I need to be back in Kirkuk. I’d like you to include me in this next course.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, General,” Jaziri agreed with a broad smile.

And it was. For more than the next week, Timo felt as though he’d shucked off a shell of worries, cares, grief, and responsibility—so he could work, learn, move with the untrammeled freedom of a much younger, eager, and hopeful young man. Always a physically capable man, his strength, speed, accuracy, and endurance were enhanced by the suit in ways that thrilled him beyond words.

But each night—every night—the images returned to storm his memories and his mind, more real than dreams, barely fading as memories. Once more, he held his wife’s mutilated body in his arms and looked in horror upon the broken, bullet-riddled body of the bright young boy who’d been his hope and joy. He cried, and he cursed, and he hated.

And always before he slept, he repeated his vow:

Never again.

* * * * *

Chapter 13: 8 January, Year 10

K1 Military Complex

Outside Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

KR Primary Airbase

The second massive C-5M Super Galaxy descended majestically from the heavy overcast and touched down in a perfect landing, huge engines howling against the drag of the heavy aircraft as they labored to slow the transport plane on the two-plus kilometer length of the Kurdish Republic’s longest runway. Roger Tang, watching with several Kurdish officers and a contingent of American contacts, felt his hands clench into fists as if the tension of his own muscles could aid the braking of the airplane.

With or without his help, the huge plane eventually idled to a slow crawl, and worked its way to the far side of the airbase, where it came to rest next to a matching C-5M that had landed an hour earlier. The first Super Galaxy sat with both fore and aft hatches open, revealing the newly empty interior that, moments earlier, had disgorged a pair of Abrams M1A2 main battle tanks.

“That’s all twenty-four of them, Mr. Tang,” one of the contractors reported as the hatches on the final C-5M rose. “The Kurdish Army has a heavy tank battalion again.”

The American tycoon nodded in satisfaction. It had taken some serious string-pulling, and dispersals of more than a few hundred thousand in cash, but the red tape had been cut, and the massive aerial transport of heavy armor had finally been arranged, executed, and completed. The big tanks, certified as surplus in Germany, had been earmarked for the KR for more than a year. However, land access for the tanks and other materiel had been denied by Turkey and Iraq, as well as—naturally—Syria and Iran. The only way to get them into the small, new country was to fly them in.

And the only planes capable of carrying even one of the armored behemoths, much less two at a time, were the Super Galaxies—the modern version of the venerable C-5A that had served the US Armed Forces for more than sixty years. The transports had taken a half-dozen trips—with fighter escorts each time—which had led to more diplomatic posturing. Finally, though, the small nation’s heavy tank losses had been more than restored.

Tang’s attention turned to the nearby helipad where, as if on cue, a Black Hawk emblazoned with the emblem of the Army of the Kurdish Republic was landing. The American industrialist knew the helicopter was bringing Timo Sheen back from his “bereavement leave” in the mountains, and the two men had some encouraging catching up to do.

* * *

The huge transport planes caught Timo’s eye even before the helicopter began its descent, and by the time the machine touched down, he’d spotted the two Abrams tanks rumbling toward a nearby hangar. He knew they’d wait there, out of sight of prying eyes, until a pair of tank transporters arrived and, under cover of darkness, trucked them off to the Kurdish Armored Battalion’s base, a hundred and seventy kilometers south of the city.

A few minutes later, he was shaking Roger Tang’s hand, his gratitude unspoken in the powerful grip he exchanged with his friend and the nation’s benefactor.

“That makes an even two dozen,” Tang said breezily. “While you’ve been fishing up in the mountains, we’ve been busy down here.”

“I see that, and I’m overwhelmed.”

Tang shrugged offhandedly. “So, about that trip of yours,” he asked with a grin. “Catch anything?”

“More than I ever thought possible,” the Kurdish general declared. He filled the American in on his training session with the GOGs and couldn’t contain his enthusiasm for the powered suits’ remarkable capabilities. “We have three training camps operational,” he said. “We’ll have a hundred Peshmerga checked out on them by the end of the month…” He left the statement hanging.

“And we’ll have suits for every one of them,” Tang promised. “Production’s picking up now that we have the resistant cloth manufacture worked out.”

“I think we’re going to need them all, and more,” Timo acknowledged as the two men made their way to Tang’s SUV. When they were out of earshot of the contractors and other personnel, he informed the American of Iran’s planned spring offensive, and of his own government’s unwillingness to take the necessary precautions.

“Can’t you tell President Hassan about your source?” Tang pressed. “Surely he can’t ignore that kind of warning?”

Timo shook his head. “He not only can, he will. The fact that I’ve authorized intelligence gathering of this sort is against his directive. He publicly assures everyone who’ll listen that we have no chance in a shooting war. Anyone who disagrees is fired or ridiculed. I think he’s convinced himself that if we stand down, there’ll be no reason for Iran to attack.”

“Laying supine only works when both sides practice it,” the American said ruefully.

“In the meantime, I’m due for a general staff command meeting at headquarters. I suspect Hassan will be there—so wish me luck.”

* * * * *

Chapter 14: 11 January, Year 10

Outside Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

K1 Military Base

Kurdish Army Headquarters

Generals Qadir and Gokalp were seated to either side of President Hassan when Timo was admitted to the presidential conference room, ten minutes late for the scheduled start of the meeting. The walls were covered with wallpaper that relied heavily on gold leaf. A life-size painting of the president in a carved mahogany frame dominated the far wall.

“General Sheen. Good of you to join us,” the chief executive said, glowering.

“I trust your leave was some comfort,” General Gokalp added quickly, soothing Timo’s flash of anger.

“It was, sir. I only landed in the capital within the last hour.” He swallowed his pride with some effort. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

Perhaps the reminder of the young commander’s grievous loss touched the president, or perhaps he merely decided that he wanted to get on with business. In any event, he nodded and gestured at Gokalp to make his report.

“General Barnas can’t join us today; his health, I fear, is failing,” Gokalp reported, “but I have the reports from the Eastern frontier, updated as of yesterday.”

“Go on,” the president said.

“The Iranian raids across the border seem to have ceased, at least for the last fortnight,” the general acknowledged, his normally fiery disposition unusually restrained. “Our troops have been holding their own positions, and snow’s already closing the mountain passes between our people and the Iranians. We seem to have established a kind of stasis for the time being.”

“Good,” Hassan declared. “It’s important to remember—we must offer no provocation the enemy can use as an excuse to commence hostility.”

Timo listened and kept his thoughts to himself. Nothing would be gained by showing his anger. Gokalp reviewed the winter dispositions of the army, which remained as it had been positioned a month before. He reported that additional spare parts had been imported, and the armored brigade was being refitted and retrained. If he knew about the new heavy tank reinforcements, he made no mention of it for the time being.

It was sometime later that the president changed the tack of the conversation. “I’m concerned about the tendencies of the more, er, ‘warlike’ of our former Peshmerga on the borderlands.” He addressed his question to General Qadir. “What assurances can you give me that they won’t be a threat to the peace?”

“We’ve placed all stockpiles of weapons and ammunition under the central authority of the army,” Qadir replied. “There’s little individuals can do to disrupt the current truce, armed only with old weapons and limited ammunition.”

“And that’s a concern,” General Gokalp noted, showing a trace of his former martial attitude. “If the villages along the border are attacked, our people will have a difficult time defending themselves.”

“I have it on excellent authority that there will be no attack,” Hassan replied. “It’s imperative that the military weaponry remain under our control.”

Timo thought of the thousands of rifles, grenade launchers, machine guns, and crates of ammunition his men had been deploying surreptitiously to the border communities. It seemed that, for now, the powers that be remained ignorant of his illicit rearming, and the training that had been occurring under the auspices of Colonel Karim and the other militia commanders he’d quietly recruited. The young general was as satisfied as he could be that his precautions were advancing discretely and effectively, and so far, without discovery.

As what was proving to be a meaningless planning meeting for a war their president was sure would never happen continued, Timo pictured the wave of Iranian Revolutionary Guards he felt certain would be coming in the spring, invading on foot, by truck and tank—and, he realized, by helicopter. Then he had another thought.

I have to get Karim and the rest of them some anti-aircraft missiles.

* * * * *

Chapter 15: 6 February, Year 10

Eastern Frontier

Kurdish Republic

Village of Bianza

Militia Colonel Hernin ibn Karim lowered the binoculars and unconsciously twisted his beard, satisfied that the two trucks preceded by the battered Land Rover SUV were the vehicles he’d been expecting. The miniature convoy had crested the muddy ridge to the northwest of the village. The trio of vehicles, growling from the pressure of engine braking, crept down the steep track that led to the little village.

The two trucks, battered old Toyotas, looked like they could be hauling grain, vegetables, or even goats—and in fact, each had carried many such loads in their decades of service. Now, however, they worked in a more important role, ferrying the weapons General Sheen had been regularly providing his loyal militia colonel. And Hernin ibn Karim, in turn, had been dispersing the weapons to more than a dozen surrounding villages.

The Land Rover carried four well-armed Peshmerga, but that was to be expected, even for a small cargo of agricultural products. The mountain valleys along the Iranian borderlands were home to many groups of ruthless bandits, and no goods with any value would be sent undefended through the lawless back country.

“We’ve opened up the storage space just in time,” remarked Karim’s chief lieutenant, Beng Werzan. They stood beside the militia colonel’s small hut, where the secure underground vault had recently been emptied as a dozen crates of rifles, a thousand grenades, and large boxes of ammunition had just been shipped to another frontier village two valleys to the south.

Despite Karim’s confident words, he kept his eyes on the three vehicles for the next hour as they descended from the ridge and then picked up a little speed, churning through potholes on the dirt road, scattering sheets of brown water that had collected in several low areas. Finally, the Land Rover pulled slightly ahead of the bigger trucks as the convoy reached the base of the small hill topped by Karim’s village and house.

When the SUV growled into the yard, the colonel was startled to see Timo Sheen himself riding in the front passenger seat. The young general jumped out as soon as the vehicle came to a halt, returning Karim’s salute briskly and greeting his old comrade with a warm smile.

A few villagers who recognized the general gave a slight cheer.

“General! This is an unexpected honor!” the tribal chief declared.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Timo replied, gesturing to the two trucks that labored and growled their way up the last elevation and into Karim’s compound. “I bring you a special treat today!”

Throughout the winter, these small convoys had made their way to Bianza, one arriving every couple of weeks. Ibn Karim had lost track of how many small arms, anti-personnel weapons, machine guns, and grenades had passed through his hands for dispersal to the surrounding militias. He could barely contain his curiosity as Timo led him around to the back of one of the trucks. A Peshmerga obligingly pulled aside the canvas tarp, and with one of his companions, pulled down the baskets of grain that concealed the real cargo: dozens of rectangular crates lined up on the truck bed, each emblazoned with the designation FIM-92J.

“Anti-aircraft missiles?” Karim guessed shrewdly.

“American-made surplus,” Timo confirmed. “Almost the latest generation of the Stinger—shoulder-launched and capable of targeting either by a radar signature or an IR source. If the Iranians arrive by helicopter, you won’t be without the means to knock them out of the air.”

“This is tremendous,” Karim agreed. “I have a few men—such as Lieutenant Werzan, here—who have experience with such ordnance. I think we can give the Persians a most unwelcome surprise!”

“I know you will,” the general replied, growing serious, “and I’m afraid you’ll need to do that sooner than any of us would wish.”

Karim nodded at his commander’s somber tone. Together with Werzan, they went into the chieftain’s house and, for several hours, discussed the situation. Karim outlined the villages that had provided young Kurds to be trained as militia. “There are a few men of leadership that aren’t trustworthy, so there are three frontier hamlets that have no garrison in place. But for the rest of the twenty-two along my section of the border, each has a plan in place, and at least a company of Peshmerga ready to fight at a minute’s notice.”

“And communication?”

“We have secure short-range radio contact with every unit,” the village chief said. “Of course, we only broadcast in code. And I have my ears open for any word from you,” he added, referencing the longer-range radio concealed in the vault below his house. “One of my people is monitoring that set every minute of every day—even though we’ve heard nothing for months.”

“I understand. Of course, that’s only for emergencies, so I haven’t been willing to risk any unnecessary traffic once we established that all the systems worked.”

“As it should be,” Karim approved. “Even the hills have ears around here. Just contact me when matters are about to come to a head.”

“I’ll give you as much warning as I can, old friend,” Timo promised. He laid out the most recent intelligence for Karim, suggesting that the first border crossings would occur as soon as the snow had melted from the high passes.

“Less than two months away, then,” the older man said with a nod.

“Probably before the end of April,” Timo agreed. “I expect we’ll have a day or two of warning before the attack comes—maybe more, but I can’t promise that.”

“A day will be enough,” Hernan ibn Karim pledged. “We’ll be ready.”

The winter sun had already descended behind the western ridge when the general climbed into the Land Rover. The SUV, followed by two trucks rendered considerably lighter by the discharge of their cargo, started down the hill and on to the mountain road back toward Kirkuk.

* * * * *

Chapter 16: 17 March, Year 10

Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

Presidential Palace

Even though his countrymen would only be hearing his voice, not seeing him this evening, President Azad Hassan had dressed in an immaculate business suit, complete with a silk tie striped in the red, white, and green of the Kurdish Republic’s flag.

Hassan, the second president of the Kurdish Republic, had spent the last hour overseeing every detail of the technical set up for his speech. He’d been preparing his speech for weeks. Tonight was the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Republic, and half its citizens would be listening. Earlier in the day, he’d spoken at length on the phone with the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. He’d given Hassan every assurance possible that both nations wanted and would benefit from cooperation and peaceful coexistence. The Kurdish president was proud that he’d be the one to finally lead his often-embattled nation into peace.

With minutes to go, President Hassan sat in front of the microphone and smiled for the camera that would record his speech. Too few rural Kurds owned a television, so it would go out over every radio station in the country. There was no gallery, just the president and the technical staff.

The director waved a warning, and then counted down from ten. At one, the teleprompter rolled, and Hassan said:

“My fellow Kurds, today I have a wonderful announcement that will change all our lives for the better. It’s the result of years of effort by myself and those dedicated to peace in both nations.

“We, the Esteemed Mullahs and officials of Iran, and I, the leader of our Kurdish Republic, have had a further meeting today and are agreed in recognizing that the question of peaceful relations is of the first importance for our two countries.

“We regard the agreement signed this morning, the Iranian Kurdish Border Disarmament and Mutual Demobilization Agreement, as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.

“We are resolved that the method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern our two countries, and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference, and thus to contribute to assuring the peace we both so desire.

“My good friends, for the first time in our short history, a Kurdish prime minister has returned from Iran bringing peace with honor. I believe it’s ‘peace for our time.’

“As you prepare for this year’s Newroz festivities, do so in the knowledge that your families and your communities are safe. Celebrate that there will be war no more between neighbors and then go home and get a nice, quiet sleep.”

* * * * *

Chapter 17: 19 March, Year 10

K3 Military Base

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Commander’s Quarters

The Kurdish general still hadn’t returned to the home he’d shared with his wife and son. His aides had brought him what was necessary and then sealed the house. Timo’s new residence in the headquarters building was a Spartan set of rooms, including a small kitchen, latrine, office, sitting room, and sleeping quarters. The walls were tan and unadorned, the sparse furniture a darker brown. As the chill March evening approached midnight, he looked around the space, noticing that it barely looked lived in—probably because he was rarely there.

He tried hard not to think about how Birsin would’ve hated its dullness, and even harder to suppress the feeling that she might still come through its door and berate him for abandoning their home. Then he turned out the light, stepped out onto the second-floor balcony, and locked the door behind him. Reacting as he always did to the memory of his lost wife and son, he threw himself into his work. The night was still cold, and a few flakes of late snow were falling. They’d soon melt, as would the snow in the passes.

At precisely 2355, he started down the wooden steps at the rear of the BOQ toward the camp street. At the same time, a darkened Humvee rounded the corner at the edge of the block, rolling to a stop before him just as the general reached the foot of the stairs. Without wasting a step, Timo opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

The only other occupant of the vehicle was the driver, Captain Celal Duhoki. He immediately, but quietly, pulled away, driving in silence away from the headquarters buildings and across the parade ground toward the tank depot.

Timo waited without speaking, knowing Duhoki wouldn’t have asked him to this clandestine meeting if he didn’t have something important to report.

“A time and date,” the captain said finally when the Humvee was at least a hundred meters from any other parked vehicle. No movement, no light disturbed the darkness. Timo knew he had soldiers on watch throughout the base, but he also knew this was as private a meeting place as the two men would find. “The attack will commence at 0100, 23 March.”

Timo waited a moment to let the data sink in—three days from now. He wondered that he didn’t feel more concern or fear. Then the general realized he’d been planning for this invasion all winter long. Now that they had the specifics, every part of his plan was ready to be put into action.

“It makes a certain amount of sense,” Sheen said as he thought through the implications. “It’s timed to coincide with the end of Newroz festivities. More troops than usual will be home with their families, and towns and villages will be quiet as everyone rests and recovers from long nights of dancing and jumping over fires. That’s exactly the date I’d pick if I were the Iranian commander.”

He left unspoken that it was also good timing to crush the national spirit of the Kurds. Newroz, more than any other national holiday, celebrated the identity of the Kurdish people. Though not technically accurate, it was also generally celebrated as their national independence day. To lose their country in the immediate aftermath of the celebration would be a psychological blow from which the people might never recover. If they failed to defend their country, this might be their last Newroz ever.

In fact, as he thought about it, it was almost too perfect. Moreover, the timing of the notification was suspiciously fortuitous. They’d have just enough warning to keep the Newroz festivities from impacting their readiness, at least among the border militia. That set his experience-induced paranoia on edge.

“Confirmed by your source in Tehran, no doubt.”

Duhoki nodded. “And supported by supplementary documentation—orders, itineraries, even maps.” The captain handed over a small flash drive, which Timo instinctively placed in the secure interior pocket of his uniform blouse. “This should give you a good idea of where they’ll strike, and what they’ll hit us with.”

The general nodded in appreciation. “Your man’s taken quite a risk.”

“Raptor did,” the intelligence captain agreed, “and there are some unpleasant surprises included. Of course, that’s to be expected.”

“Of course,” Timo agreed, though he felt a tingle of alarm. “What kind of surprises?”

“First, our old friends from Baghdad will be joining the attack. They’ll be sending a reinforced armored division up the valley of the Tigris on the West bank. Our best indications are that, due to the mullahs’ security concerns, they won’t be deployed until after the Persians have moved against us.”

“Not the worst surprise, and not totally unexpected,” Timo acknowledged. The Kurds would have a little time, a few days at least, to deliver a bloody nose to the initial attackers before swinging to face the Iraqi incursion with whatever remained after dealing with the Iranian force. Whether that would be Kurdish tanks, or whatever survived of the militia, they’d only know after the Iranian battle ended.

He considered the situation as Duhoki let him think it over. By now, he had three companies with a total of three hundred GOGs under his command. Production was currently at roughly another hundred every month, and the training of young, eager Peshmerga was staying ahead of the available equipment—every GOG manufactured in the next four months already had a trained soldier waiting for it, and another in reserve. All these Peshmerga had been sequestered in the mountains and, so far as he knew, the enemy had no idea of the combat suits’ existence, much less their capabilities in the field.

Timo had already decided that he wouldn’t unleash that secret weapon in the first clash of the war. He was also certain the suits were better used as a light mobile formation, and he didn’t want to sacrifice them by placing them in a defensive position in the path of an enemy tank attack. He couldn’t yet judge when to release his new weapon in any numbers. That would be decided by the results of the first day’s battles. He only hoped their role wouldn’t be a desperate last stand.

“You mentioned several surprises,” Timo finally responded. “What else do you know?”

Duhoki took a deep breath, an uncharacteristic display of discomfort. Timo waited, trying to appear patient.

“There’s a report, unconfirmed at this point, that the mullahs have come to an arrangement with our president. Azad Hassan is to retain his office—assuming he can stand our people down, and the casualties remain light. The Iranian casualties, in any event. You heard the speech.”

“He sold us out?” Timo demanded, startled out of his enforced calm. “For his own protection?”

“This isn’t confirmed,” Duhoki repeated. “Raptor hasn’t been involved in any of these discussions. However, he has a feeling—a gut feeling, if you will—that the mullahs are far more confident than they should be. There’s been talk of a promise to allow him to stay president, and laughter that Hassan thinks he can still protect us. Publicly, they’ve expressed surprising goodwill toward our esteemed leader.”

Timo thought back to Hassan’s speech, broadcasting his expectations of peace to the entire Kurdish nation just a few days earlier. This revelation—or this suspicion—showed the chief executive’s words in a whole new light. Timo felt a greater chill settle over his already frozen emotions.

Hassan had been his mentor Helgurd’s friend. The president had once been as brave and dedicated as any Peshmerga in his youth. Still, it finally explained the president’s resistance to all active military measures. He was either a traitor or a fool. How could Hassan, as a puppet for the fanatic mullahs, expect to moderate the devastation that would follow their defeat? Had he not seen what they did to their own people? Was it possible that the fledgling republic had been betrayed by the man who’d helped found it, and now stood at the pinnacle of leadership?

Both officers sat for a long time. The pragmatic side of Timo’s nature looked at the question from every angle. In the end, he had to acknowledge that it was quite possible, indeed. Perhaps Hassan’s betrayal was inspired more by self-deception than greed, or perhaps he was motivated by fear and desperation. In either case, it explained many, many things.

* * * * *

Chapter 18: 22 March, Year 10

Kurdish Army Headquarters,

K1 Military Base

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic

“General Gokalp will see you now,” Major Rubad informed Timo Sheen, who’d only been waiting a few minutes after making his unannounced stop at the senior general’s office.

Stepping through the open door, Timo saluted. He’d been wavering for several days about making a call on one of the nation’s senior staff; now that he’d made the decision and acted, he felt no hesitation. Gokalp rose from his chair, returned the salute, and gestured for the junior officer to take a seat in front of the desk.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Gokalp said genially. “We don’t see much of you around here. Are things going well at the forward base?” he inquired, referring to the casual term the HQ staff had employed for the depot where the armored battalion was based.

“Well enough now,” Timo replied, “but I have it on good authority that they’ll be turning to shit tomorrow.” His voice was hard.

Gokalp stiffened, eyes narrowing as he studied the brigadier’s face. Perhaps he was looking for a sign of jesting there; in any event, he held out his right hand, palm up. “Go on,” he said.

“I’ve taken some actions without the knowledge of the president; I believe them to be in the best interests of our nation. Now, it seems, those actions will be proven necessary, and will be exposed.”

“Actions taken without the knowledge of the general staff,” Gokalp said, more as a musing acknowledgement than a challenge. “I’m listening.”

Timo proceeded to inform the senior general of his contact in Iranian intelligence—naming him only as Raptor—and then described the plans he’d received detailing the imminent attack by the bulk of the Iranian Army. He broke down the enemy’s order of battle into armored columns moving up the Tigris and three infantry divisions that would be attacking through the Zagros Mountains. He tried to keep the anger from his voice. Finally, the young general outlined the steps he’d taken in arming the Peshmerga militia and organizing the training of the irregulars into units under Colonel Karim and others.

He left two details out of this impromptu briefing. He didn’t say anything about the GOGs, and he made no reference to the suspicion, as yet unconfirmed, that President Hassan had deliberately compromised the defense of the nation in exchange for an Iranian pledge that would allow him to retain his privileged position.

“I was certain the president would object to these steps,” Timo concluded, “but I was equally certain they’d become necessary, and they’d be essential to our nation’s prospects for survival.”

“And you were so certain that we, your commanding generals, would object to these steps as well?” Gokalp demanded, showing a hint of his internal fire.

Timo didn’t flinch. “I didn’t want to put you in the position of being insubordinate,” he deflected.

“Yet you had no problem with your own insubordination?”

“I didn’t disobey any direct orders,” the brigadier general retorted. “I merely exercised… discretion… about how much information to pass up the chain of command. In that sense, I was looking out for…”

“I can smell bullshit from here,” Gokalp snapped. “Why would you take such a chance? And when do you think this attack is going to happen?”

“I made these moves based not on chance, but on what I believe to be certainty,” Timo shot back, refusing to be intimidated. He looked at the clock on the wall behind Gokalp’s desk; it was just a few minutes short of noon.

“As to when this is going to happen, I expect the Kurdish Republic will be under invasion by the Islamic Republic of Iran before the sun comes up tomorrow morning.”

That immediate time frame finally set Gokalp back in his seat. The older general shook his head as if clearing cobwebs from his brain, then bounced to his feet with the energy of a much younger man.

“Come on, then!” he barked, snatching up his hat and striding toward his office door. “We haven’t got much time!”

* * * * *

Chapter 19: 23 March, Year 10

Seven Kilometers East of Bianza

Iran/Kurdish Republic Border

The Iranians had chosen a moonless night to launch their attack, which was to be expected. The fact that it was a night of low clouds, the air misted by a fine drizzle, was merely good luck—for the attackers.

To the defenders such as Lieutenant Beng Werzan, commanding a firing position overlooking the border crossing, the still air, thick with moisture, was a curse. Nearby sounds were abnormally loud. A sneeze meters away seemed painfully loud, while distant noises were often muffled. The officer knelt in a dry foxhole, only the upper half of his head extending above the rim. He wore one of the two pairs of IR goggles Colonel Karim had authorized for this border outpost, but even so, he couldn’t make out anything more than a hundred meters away. Everything he could see was still, lifeless, cold. No motion stirred in the drifting mist, and no foreign sound reached his ears.

But he sensed the presence of life, heat, and danger not terribly far away.

He was posted with a light company of young Peshmerga, sixty men and women scattered through dozens of firing pits excavated in the rocky scree of a low ridge. They had two light machine guns, well emplaced and partially covered, for support. A corporal knelt beside him in the foxhole, ready to launch an illumination flare when the officer gave the signal. To his left loomed a high ridge of the Zagros Mountains, impassable to vehicles, and damned challenging even to skilled mountain troops. To his right lay the wide, flat basin of a valley leading from Iran directly into the heart of the Kurdish Republic.

Barely a kilometer away, on the other side of the valley, another low ridge ran parallel to his own position. A second company of Peshmerga, also supported by a pair of light machine guns, and commanded by veteran Sergeant Hawar Biskoj—the second beneficiary of the IR goggles—was emplaced there. The headquarters of their commander, Colonel Hernin ibn Karim, lay more than half a dozen kilometers to the rear, accessible along the wide valley floor. A dirt road, now heavily mined, led from the Iranian border to Bianza on its little hill. Werzan knew the mines were merely a minor nuisance: the valley bottom, though dotted with trees and brush, could be easily traversed by soldiers on foot, and even by military vehicles with adequate ground clearance and tracks or four-wheel drive.

Cursing the mist and fog, the veteran officer scanned the foreground in regular sweeps, seeking any glimmer of an infrared signature—a spot of heat that would mark a warm engine or a sweating human figure. The hours crawled by slowly from midnight until 0200. No glimmer of starlight penetrated the overcast as the time passed, and the valley remained dark, colorless, and still.

And then it wasn’t.

Werzan detected a faint glimmer of pale red, a glow so brief, he wondered if he’d imagined it—until he saw it again, the vague outline of a man walking stealthily. In a few seconds he saw more of them, indistinct shapes through the fog. The Iranians advanced in open order, on foot, the nearest man barely a hundred meters away. For the moment, the Kurd could neither see nor hear vehicles, though he imagined at least a few armored personnel carriers would be parked a kilometer or so behind these scouts.

Without speaking, Werzan tapped his corporal on her shoulder, and she immediately fired a flare. The rocket sizzled and hissed through the fog, and even before it burst, the Kurds in their firing pits began to shoot. The young lieutenant removed his goggles and sighted his own M4 at the place he’d first seen the stealthy attackers. When the white magnesium blossomed brilliantly a few hundred meters overhead, the leading enemy troops had already dropped prone to the ground.

But it was ground that had been carefully chosen by the Kurdish defenders, free of large rocks, and cleared of brush that might have at least provided concealment from visual observation. The Peshmerga fired single rounds from their assault rifles, resisting the urge to pour waves of automatic fire into the attackers. They’d received training in marksmanship, and they put that training to good use, shooting one or two rounds at each visible enemy. Already, many of those Iranian Guards lay still, and the ones that moved attracted additional rounds so quickly that even before the flare sputtered and died, the killing field was covered with bleeding, motionless corpses.

The signal corporal launched a second flare. Werzan noticed more flares across the valley, and in the broad illumination, he saw more enemy soldiers than he could count. Here and there, a few dashed forward courageously, but these bold sallies were quickly halted by Kurdish marksmanship. The light machine guns chattered, multiple rounds chewing into the trapped enemy ranks—though no tracers flared, as the gunners didn’t want to reveal their well-concealed firing pits.

During lulls in the gunfire, Werzan detected the noise of diesel engines and knew the Iranian APCs were moving forward to support the infantry. A rocket-propelled grenade shot out from a forward foxhole, and the lieutenant grimaced, knowing one of his young warriors had fired too soon—and in fact, the projectile fell to the ground and exploded dozens of meters short of the first looming vehicles growling out of the darkness.

Within a minute, the Kurdish officer spotted more than a dozen low, flat armored personnel carriers. Each rode on tracks like a tank, with a small swiveling turret, and a gun that spat a rapid stream of explosive rounds at the well-hidden Kurds. The vehicles were Russian in make, the lieutenant decided, some variant of the BMP that had been ubiquitous in the Warsaw Pact by the end of the Cold War. Iran, he knew, had acquired a number of the vehicles during the ‘90s. Even as he tried to refine his identification, one of the BMPs exploded in an orange fireball as an RPG found the range.

Werzan reached for his radio mic and pressed the Send button as one more APC vanished in a cloud of fire. The rest of the armored vehicles stopped, spraying rounds from their turret guns at targets they couldn’t see.

“Bear Cub to Papa. We have contact. Multiple company assault along full front. Halted for the moment.”

The Kurdish machine guns continued to crackle away, and some of the attackers—those few who were still mobile—scrambled back behind the illusory shelter of the armored vehicles. The deadly gunfire followed, and as more flares illuminated the battlefield, the Iranians stayed put, shooting back blindly against the well-concealed defenders.

The first artillery rounds came in without warning, falling a few hundred meters short of the Kurdish position, but still shaking the ground with the brutal impact of massive shells. The next rounds were more accurate, falling among the first foxholes, and Werzan winced, knowing at least a few of his young Peshmerga must’ve perished. Another volley of shells fell directly on their position, and in the aftermath, one of the machine guns ceased firing. He could feel the air vibrate as rocks and jagged shrapnel spun overhead.

“Bear Cub to Papa,” the Kurdish officer reported back to Colonel Karim, “big guns have found us—we’re pulling back.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation before switching his radio to the local frequency. “All units, fall back. Maintain open formation, and fire as you go.”

The border of the Kurdish Republic had been breached.

The war was 47 minutes old.

* * *

Village of Bianza

Colonel Karim heard the big guns, even from seven kilometers behind the front, and he cursed quietly. He’d allowed himself to hope that his village would face an attack by light infantry, but clearly, the enemy had decided Bianza’s valley was worthy of a significant attack. The guns signaled a destructive power his lightly armed militia couldn’t hope to stand against.

For the moment, his Peshmerga were prepared as well as they could be. He had almost five hundred fighters here, dispersed and placed in three defensive lines, falling back to the hill occupied by the village. The low elevation had been rendered as much of a strong point as possible, and included concrete bunkers camouflaged by ground cover, as well as interlocking trenches, and even a pair of tunnels. The residents had been evacuated. His men and women were all well concealed, dug in, and as courageous as the Kurdish soldiers who’d fought for so many generations before them. They’d be ready when the Iranians came.

But Hernan ibn Karim had a more immediate problem, and he couldn’t delay its resolution any longer. He strode manfully through his front door and confronted his wife, who stood at the stove simmering a large pot of tea—a task she’d been performing for hours, to the tune of more than a hundred gallons of the strong, pungent brew. Its appealing odor filled the air.

“Pergul!” he barked sternly. “You must leave. Now! There’s room in Lajin’s car for one more passenger, and he’ll take you to your sister’s house in Mosul. You’ll be safe there. I fear that’s the last ride out of the village before the Persians come.”

“My place is here with you, in my home,” Pergul Karim retorted stubbornly, as Hernan had known she would. “I didn’t flee when Saddam’s monsters came with their gas, nor when we fought for our independence. I’m too old to start running now.”

“My darling,” Hernan pleaded, knowing that additional bluster on his part would only cause her to dig in more firmly. “That’s precisely why you must withdraw. You’ve done your part. This fight belongs to the next generation.”

“What about you, then?” she asked in an eminently reasonable tone.

He sighed. “I wish I could go with you, but—”

“I know,” she interrupted, “you can’t. You’re needed here because our soldiers will fight better under your command. And since you can’t come with me, I need to stay here with you. Besides,” she continued, “the tea is almost ready.”

Knowing a lost battle when he’d been defeated, Hernan ibn Karim nodded in resignation and accepted the cup of hot chai as Pergul poured it. He mustered one last effort at command. “Promise me you’ll go down into the bunker when the shooting starts.”

“Of course I will,” she replied willingly enough, he thought.

When he went back outside, he realized the artillery barrage on the frontier defenses had ceased. He understood that was because his border companies had withdrawn as planned, not that the big guns had somehow—impossibly—been silenced by force.

For the next three hours, he paced the perimeter of the village and caught brief radio updates from Werzan, who was leading a fighting withdrawal and effectively slowing the Iranian advance. The avuncular colonel did his best to prepare his young soldiers for the first battle most of them would experience. Behind him, a group of young cadets passed along the firing positions, sharing the hot tea Pergul continued to brew in prodigious portions.

The earlier fog had settled down, though the sky remained overcast. A barely visible brightening began as the first of the retreating border defenders filed up the hill. Karim could see nothing of the valley floor to the east, but he could imagine the Iranians advancing cautiously, but as swiftly as they dared, behind the withdrawing Kurds. Soon, small-arms fire crackled across the valley, and he knew the enemy vanguard had come up against Bianza’s first line of foxholes.

Lieutenant Werzan confirmed it as he climbed to the hilltop to make his report in person. “There’s at least a battalion in the lead,” he asserted. “Dozens of APCs, though most of the troops are dismounted. The vehicles are holding back, and I know we torched at least two with RPGs. I didn’t see any tanks, but of course, they have those damned heavy guns. I’m guessing they’re 130s for the most part. I estimate I lost a dozen Peshmerga on my side of the valley,” he concluded grimly. “I talked to Sergeant Biskoj—he might’ve fared a little better, but he lost people, too.”

The casualties weren’t unexpected, but the colonel still felt a pang of grief. Too many families would be hearing bad news, even on the first morning of the war.

“We’ll do our best to slow them down,” Karim acknowledged. “Sooner or later, we’ll be pulling back to the pass, and we can’t let them cross there. I need you to take your soldiers up to the summit. I have one reserve company up there. You and Sergeant Biskoj will deploy among them and prepare to screen us when we’re forced out of here.”

“Very good, Colonel. And, sir?”

“What is it?”

“You’ve trained these people well.”

Embarrassed, Karim looked away momentarily, then turned back to face his earnest underling. “They’re Kurds.” He grunted. “Fighting for survival is in their blood.”

The sporadic firing rose to a steady fusillade from the first line of defense, five hundred meters east of the village, and from the volume, they knew the Iranians were pressing the advance vigorously. Werzan took his leave—he and his Peshmerga traveled on foot, but still made rapid time, even with their weapons and ammunition. Karim moved to a position in a slit trench, one and a half meters deep, at the forward crest of the hill. Two Kurds with rifles stood to either side of him, waiting for targets to come within range, while the colonel pressed his binoculars to his eyes. From here, he could see all the approaches that might be used by the attacking Persians.

He also listened, alert for sounds of the enemy’s APCs, but before he could make out the diesel engines, he heard another chattering sound, one he could readily identify. “Helicopters!” he called out. “Stand ready with the missiles!”

His order was repeated by every nearby NCO and echoed through the village and down the slopes, instantly reaching the dozen strong warriors—all veterans of earlier combat—who’d been provided with the Stinger anti-aircraft missiles Timo had delivered.

With the agility of a much younger man, Karim scrambled out of his trench and sprinted to a stone-walled bunker in the middle of the village. From here, he could see the whole hilltop. He watched with approval as the missile-wielding Peshmerga, each carrying his long, heavy tube loaded with a single Stinger, scattered from the village square to take up positions kneeling on the rim of the hilltop, evenly spaced along the perimeter. The stuttering, roaring sound of the Iranian aircraft grew steadily louder, though none of them were yet visible through the overcast. The clouds themselves seemed to roar, a swelling wave of sound thrumming throughout the valley.

Seeing one of his soldiers stand and raise the missile tube to his shoulder, aiming at the sky, Karim shouted again, “Wait for visual targeting!” The man knelt as the order was repeated for all.

The colonel heard the helicopters pass directly overhead and tracked the sound to the far side of the village, along the road to Bianza Pass. Abruptly the flying machines descended through the gray murk, four large single-engine craft dropping to the fields west of the hilltop. At the same time, the crackling of small-arms fire east of the village surged in volume, accompanied by the sharp explosions of mortars and grenades, and Karim knew the Iranian infantry had charged the Kurd positions aggressively. The colonel saw instantly that the enemy sought to envelop his little strong point—if the choppers landed and disgorged enough troops to establish a blocking position to the west, his eventual retreat from the village would be imperiled, or even completely foiled.

But his Stinger troops were ready. He watched with satisfaction as four, six, and ultimately seven rockets spat from the Peshmerga wielding the shoulder-launched anti-aircraft weapons. The shots came from the Kurds nearest the helicopters; Karim was pleased with the fire discipline that caused the men on the eastern edge of the village to hold their fire. Three missiles converged on one chopper, and the aircraft disintegrated in a blossom of searing flame. The helicopter’s fuselage dropped to the ground, burning men spilling from the wrecked frame, and vanished in a conflagration that erupted dozens of meters in the air.

Two more helicopters reeled under missile hits. One lost its tail to a sharp explosion and wheeled crazily, spiraling out of control, to crash and burn. A few soldiers scrambled out before the wreckage vanished in a violent blast; the survivors staggered and fell to the ground under the force of the explosion and the impact of the landing. The third of the stricken helicopters, hit right in the fuel tank, instantaneously disappeared into a fireball that plunged like a meteor to the ground. No one survived that crash.

Only the fourth chopper, descending quickly, managed to evade the lone missile targeting it, landing hard in a bean field. Several dozen Revolutionary Guardsmen spilled from the open doors. Some dropped immediately, hit by Kurdish fire, while the rest scrambled to a stone wall at the edge of the field. Dozens of Peshmerga pinned them down, young militiamen and women instinctively advancing to the right and left of the enemy squad and picking them off with a lethal enfilade from both flanks. At the same time, bullets riddled the cabin and the body of the helicopter as the pilot tried to advance the throttle. A shower of blood spattered the windshield glass and, almost like a living creature, the chopper settled to the ground as its damaged engine sputtered and died.

The crescendo of firing to the east continued to swell. With the air assault neutralized, Karim turned his attention to that front, and saw his militia falling back to the line of firing pits at the base of Bianza’s hill. His two heavy machine guns, each securely emplaced in a stone-reinforced bunker, added their deep, forceful cadence to the firing. Revolutionary Guardsmen fell all along the front, but for the first time, Karim got a sense of the size of the force attacking him. He counted enemy soldiers by the hundreds, charging recklessly into Kurdish gunfire. Behind them, a second wave of at least five hundred more troops advanced at a jog.

Somehow, the outnumbered Kurds managed to hold their own. The attack wavered as more and more of the Persian infantry ducked, lay prone, and sought shelter from the murderous hail of well-aimed bullets. With a check to the rear, the colonel saw that the squad from the lone surviving helicopter was completely surrounded. The guard’s entire attack had, for the moment, bogged down.

Then the big guns opened up again. Apparently, the gunners had carefully sighted the range, because the first volley of 130mm shells landed on the slope right before the village. Showers of dirt and rock mixed with smoke, fire, and shrapnel plumed into the air. The slit trench Karim had originally occupied vanished, replaced by a smoking crater. He cursed the fate of the four young Kurds who’d been holding that position.

More shells crashed down on the hilltop. Houses exploded into kindling, and an unnatural earthquake heaved and tortured the ground. Debris rained down in a steady shower, often including dangerous rocks the size of a man’s skull or larger. Small-arms fire filled the gaps between the impacts with a background roar of sheer chaos.

Praying Pergul had taken shelter in the bunker under his large house, Karim glanced at the dwelling and saw that it still stood. But even as he looked at it, the wooden-framed building dissolved in a massive blast of metal shards and searing, explosive fire.

“Pergul!” he cried, scrambling out of the trench, running toward the ruins in utter disregard for the debris tumbling around him. A board caught him on the shoulder, dropping him to the ground, but he crawled a few paces until he could push himself to his feet and lurch forward again.

In another dozen steps, he stood at the rim of a new crater. Smoke and dust swirled before him, but even through the cloud, he could see that the entire house—and the bunker beneath it—had been blasted into nothingness.

The atoms, the flesh, the smile and the love that had made his wife, who’d blessed his life, had been dispersed back into the uncaring universe from which they’d been made.

* * *

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Command Center

Since about 0230, Timo had been following reports from the frontier outposts, bulletins that continued throughout the morning. Six of his informally appointed militia colonels reported enemy activity at nearly the same time, and Timo had informed General Gokalp of the first border crossings by 0300. Gokalp in turn had passed word through the army command to the president’s office. Despite President Hassan’s assurances of a lasting peace, the Kurdish Republic was at war.

The Iranian air attack had launched in the dark and arrived at its targets during the first glimmers of dawn. Already alerted, everyone on the base was in bunkers or manning weapons. Roger Tang had arrived around midnight. Timo had tried to send him away, but explaining to him that a sane man didn’t rush into the middle of a war he wasn’t fighting in was useless. The entrepreneur stayed. There was no chance he’d miss seeing his newest toys in their first real battle.

In the command bunker, reports of the attacks on the two KDR airfields came in. Both had been hit, and their runways thoroughly cratered. SAMs had knocked down two attacking aircraft and likely damaged more. Many of the Russian-built fighter bombers had carried a single large bunker-buster, which had penetrated more than half of the KDR-hardened aircraft shelters. Thoroughly dispersed, some to other airfields, only two of the A-10s had been destroyed, but eight more would need repairs. Timo suspected the Iranian air marshall was pleased with his results so far. He’d seemingly caught the entire KDR air force on the ground.

The attack on the armored base began minutes later. Large monitors showed the formations of individual jets as they approached. The technicians controlling the railguns spoke in low voices as they prepared to fire the new weapons. All was quiet in the early hours of the day, and the hushed tones seemed appropriate. Then the bunker door was pulled and bolted closed. From where the captain was standing, he could see both the targeting radar and the video monitors lining the wall, showing each railgun as he instructed their crews to “Light ’em up.”

On the line of monitors, the long, narrow weapons turned as each one pointed at a selected target. Each railgun was on a swivel that allowed it to turn through 180 degrees in just a few seconds. They were then arranged so eighteen could be pointed in any one direction. Ten rods were set in each autoloader, so no human was needed to man them until a refill was required. They were unmanned, though crews waited in a nearby bunker, holding more rods so as to not lose even a second.

From the radar and other detection reports, it appeared the Iranians were going to approach from both the south and the east. The first wave of eight split apart as four aircraft went after each of the SAM launchers also defending the base. At five miles out, the order was given to fire. Sixteen railguns launched with an explosive crack. A ten-meter gout of flame seemed to burst from the end of each gun as the oxygen in the air was set ablaze by the friction of the high-speed projectile.

* * *

Lt. Ehsan Bahram was flying last in a line a thousand meters up as they prepared, one after the other, to smash one of the heretical Kurds’ surface-to-air missile sites. Word was passed that the attacks on the Kurdish airfields had been successful, with few losses. His four-jet flight was thirty seconds out, flying at just under Mach 1, when he saw a glint on the floor of his SU-34 fighter bomber. As he glanced down to find the source was a picture of his wife that had fallen from his pocket, his hand twitched on the controls. Because of this, his jet jogged abruptly to the left, throwing it out of formation and aside just as two steel rods, fired only seconds earlier, passed through the space where he should’ve been flying.

The Persian lieutenant didn’t recognize the rods as they flashed past his cockpit. Anything without signs of an exhaust at this level was always assumed to be a bird. As he clicked on his mic to apologize to the flight leader, he realized he was alone. The sound of a nearby explosion followed. From what he could see, two of the three aircraft that had been ahead of him were falling. There was no trace of the other jet.

The mission, he decided, was destined to fail, and with a grateful look at his wife’s photo, Ehsan Bahram pulled hard on his stick and climbed for the safety of altitude.

* * *

The second wave of ten Persian jets were more SU-34 fighter bombers carrying bunker-busters intended to smash the Kurds’ tanks in their shelters. They came from the east and were to follow the first wave by less than a minute. Twelve railguns launched loudly, and Tang tried not to look nervous as he realized they were only targeting one rod at most of the incoming bombers. Four miles out, they struck. Eight aircraft simply disappeared from the monitors. Two continued, and the base rocked as the unquestionably brave Persian pilots dropped their bombs.

Inevitably, concrete dust and flakes rained down lightly, as one bomb landed less than twenty meters from their bunker. The industrialist looked at Timo, who was concentrating on the big monitor, now filled with red and yellow dots. Red, he knew, was for the fighters, and yellow for the fighter bombers. He considered, for a minute, admitting to the general he was right—the middle of a war was no place for a sane businessman—but he didn’t want to distract him at this point.

A third yellow line of dots swung toward the camp in a line abreast and low, but they weren’t low enough that the railguns couldn’t target them. Seven of the ten dropped. Then more railguns and both SAM emplacements fired as the jets moved into their targeting radius. Another yellow blip disappeared, and the explosions that followed showed the two remaining SU-34s had dropped their ordnance early, at the edge of the base. One was lucky; his bomb landed close enough to one of the tightly calibrated railguns that it put the weapon out of action. Tang made a mental note to build up the suspension and protection on new weapons.

The next two waves of Persian bombers were better coordinated and came in from both directions. A dozen fighters accompanied them a few thousand meters higher, likely trying to find the stealth fighters that were wreaking so much destruction.

This time, only nine of the sixteen bombers were destroyed as they approached. The bombs from the other seven were understandably dropped hastily and poorly aimed. Still, they managed to destroy a supply depot and one of the two motor pools. Parked in it had been the Jeeps Timo and his staff had arrived in. The twelve SU-27 fighters’ greater height allowed more of the other railguns to target them, as well. Four were shattered as they approached, and two more as they pulled up and away. Pilots on the SU-27s desperately searched for SAMs that weren’t there and dialed up all their ECM.

The yellow blips that were approaching next suddenly pulled away, but not in time. Three more were downed at seven miles. No more Persian bombers approached, but twenty fighters circled the base in two groups at twelve and fifteen thousand feet. Tang wondered whether their commander was just a slow learner or if he was convinced the Kurds’ had a stealth air force.

* * *

Almost smiling as he watched, Timo asked, as he considered the Persians circling above, “What’s the max range the guns can reach at such a high elevation?” He pushed the memory of his son away and concentrated on the answer.

“The guns can be raised to 85 degrees, not quite straight up,” the industrialist explained, getting nods from the captain commanding them. “Still, I believe they’re spread over enough distance to allow us to target most of those birds. At fifteen thousand, they’ll have begun to lose speed, and will be harder to aim. Still, each gun still has five or six shots left in them.”

“They’re totally unprotected. If we fire, and miss even a handful, the Persians will knock the railguns out in one pass,” the captain added nervously.

“A good point, Captain,” Timo agreed, “but if we can hurt them enough now, that may not be a problem.” He turned to Tang and asked in a soft voice that sounded loud because everyone else in the bunker had gone quiet, “Roger, can we hit them?”

“On paper, yes,” the American industrialist answered. He didn’t even try to sound confident, but that was enough for Timo.

“Take ’em down,” the young general ordered, sounding—he hoped—far more confident than he felt. This was the only real chance his small nation had to intimidate the Iranian pilots.

Less than a minute later, every railgun around the camp fired. The sonic booms were close enough together to shake off more concrete dust. There was no real suspense, as the rods reached their targets in seconds. Before the dust had settled to the floor, the rods struck.

Cheers erupted and echoed in the bunker as the six remaining Iranian fighters broke formation and flew away rapidly, gaining altitude in a manner that broadcast panic. The intel officer had been listening in on the Iranian Air Force’s main frequency and sent it to a speaker on his desk. Everyone could hear that the normally encrypted channel was full of frantic yelling, orders to abort the attack, and at least one pilot seemed to be sobbing. The entire remaining Persian air force was retreating to their bases. After a full minute, a Persian voice came on and silenced everyone. The bunker was suddenly silent.

“Never again,” Timo stated quietly, looking at the now empty screen.

* * *

K1 Military Base

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic

Trailed by half a dozen uniformed Peshmerga, President Hassan marched up to the door of General Gokalp’s office, pausing briefly in the face of the implacable presence of Major Rubad, the officer’s senior aide, who stood before the entrance. The gray-haired, matronly woman merely looked at him and said curtly, “Sir?”

The chief executive seemed ready to physically push the major out of the way, but he held back in the face of her stubborn, determined stare. “I need to speak to the general!” he barked, taking a tentative step forward.

She turned to knock on the door. “President Hassan to see you, General,” she announced.

“Show him in!” came General Gokalp’s muffled response.

Rubad opened the door, stepped into the office, allowed the Kurdish chief executive to pass, then closed the door and stood against it. The office was austere, but cluttered, with a map on every surface, and copies of reports stacked on each map. Its lone window was open, and the air chilled. The president, wearing an impeccably tailored Brooks Brothers suit, his gray hair and short mustache neatly trimmed, stalked to the desk, where the general sat poring over unit locations and travel times in a uniform he’d now worn for three days straight. The major left and closed the door behind herself.

“I understand the infantry brigades have been activated!” Hassan snapped, glaring down at Gokalp. “Now I hear rumors that there are unauthorized militia assemblies occurring all along our eastern border. Who’s responsible for these troop movements?”

The general, who’d been examining a series of maps laid out on his desk, looked up with an expression of surprise. “I am, of course, but that shouldn’t be news. I sent word to your office before dawn that we’re being invaded by the Islamic Republic of Iran. Surely you got those messages?” he asked incredulously.

“Preliminary reports aren’t actionable intelligence!” the president protested. “How dare you react to rumors!”

“Our response has been fast and exactly in accordance with the plan for the nation’s strategic defense!” General Gokalp retorted. “Surely that’s been communicated to you? Of course, you may review my decisions, but this isn’t a situation that would tolerate delay.”

“I’ve received reports, but they might be little more than rumors,” Hassan insisted. “My instructions were to take no action unless authorization came from my office! Why have those instructions been ignored?”

“I’m sorry to report, I received no such instructions,” Gokalp lied smoothly. He’d assumed Hassan’s first reaction had been based upon the confusion of being roused from a sound sleep, but now, it was early afternoon!

“How do you know the reports from the border are accurate?”

“I’ve personally spoken to men and women in the armed forces who are under fire, who’ve watched comrades die beside them. These fellow Kurds, I assure you, didn’t perish from ‘rumors!’” Gokalp’s temper began to flare. It was only with great effort that he tamped down the volume and the outrage in his voice. He continued, striving for a reasonable, yet urgent tone. He appreciated Timo’s foresight more than ever and knew that he couldn’t let Hassan know how much effort had in fact gone into preparing for this onslaught.

“The Iranians are raining heavy artillery on our villages! They attacked in seven different locations along the frontier. Three of the attacks were supported by heavy artillery and mechanized units. The Kurds resisting them are untrained citizens using small arms, and whatever weaponry their fathers had left over from the battle for our independence. We’re terribly unready for this, but given the urgency of the situation, there seemed little point in waiting for approval. Certainly, you’d have authorized every effort to resist, wouldn’t you?”

Gokalp was truly puzzled, and more than a little alarmed, by the president’s apparent lack of understanding and decisiveness. He knew he’d exaggerated slightly about being “terribly unprepared”—but that was only untrue because Timo Sheen had taken it upon himself to make such preparations as had occurred. He remembered the brigadier general’s request that Gokalp maintain confidentiality, which led the grizzled warrior to wonder if there was more foundation to the younger general’s suspicions than he himself was aware.

“Yes… yes, of course I would have authorized resistance,” Hassan said, making a visible effort to collect himself. “It’s just that—it’s so hard to believe! The peace treaty, the promises…” His voice trailed off. “The Iranians pledged to leave us alone. What happened? Who antagonized them?”

Something about his protestations, his aura of indignation, seemed to General Gokalp to be just a little… what?

Insincere.

* * *

Commander’s Quarters

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Timo had remained at his headquarters, connected by radio and secure telephone links to the front and to Army HQ. Now, as dusk approached on the gray, chilly day, the young general felt he’d gathered enough information to make a more complete report. He’d been able to identify three strong enemy spearheads, mainly foot infantry with helicopter and artillery support, backed up by the APCs that signified highly mobile mechanized infantry units. Those powerful thrusts had struck westward along three parallel valleys, named after the frontier villages of Qoter, Bianza, and Sax.

Four more attacks had been made, two to the north of Qoter and two south of Sax, but militia reports suggested to Timo that they were feints—they weren’t pressed as aggressively as the main axes of attack, and consisted of light infantry units with small arms, machine guns, and mortars, but lacking air and artillery support. After digesting and condensing his conclusions into a concise assessment, he put through a call and was connected immediately to Gokalp.

“The situation remains fluid, though our Peshmerga have slowed the enemy’s timeline significantly,” he informed his superior. “The attacks from the east are being made by infantry formations, in three cases backed up by mechanized units. These are in the center, and I believe they are the main threat to the Republic, at least for now. If one or more of these formations pushes through the mountains, they’ll have a clear route to the capital and the whole Kurdish heartland.”

“Do they have armor support?” Gokalp asked.

“We have no reports of heavy tanks. There are a number of armored personnel carriers, mainly Russian BMPs, but they’ve been spotted primarily in the second rank of the attackers. Presumably they’ll push through if the forward infantry can clear a path.”

“Which makes sense,” Gokalp acknowledged. “They’d give the Persians some decent mobility, and larger tanks would be vulnerable in the mountain valleys. What about air support?”

“The Persians have employed helicopter assaults in an attempt to leapfrog some of our forward positions. They’ve had limited success. All three of the border villages have been cleared, and our people are making fighting withdrawals into the mountains. Unfortunately, the terrain in the Qoter and Sax sectors favored the attacker—we don’t have any significant geographic stopping point for thirty or forty kilometers. In the middle, Colonel Karim has fallen back to the natural barrier of Bianza Pass.”

“Hernan ibn Karim? He’s a good man. Rather long in the tooth though, isn’t he?”

“He was in position, and he’s fighting hard, sir.”

“Of course.” The senior general cleared his throat, obviously regretting his hasty assessment. “No activity on the Tigris front yet?” he queried.

“Nothing definitive. I have reports that the Iraqis are moving an armored division into position on the western bank of the river, and another tank formation—apparently Iranian—is mustering east of the river. The two are well positioned to strike north when they get their orders.”

“And we have one armored battalion to try and stop them,” Gokalp said with a hint of bitterness.

“Yes, but we also have the railguns from Tang Industries,” Timo reminded him. “They were incredibly effective against the Syrians, and now we have more than a dozen of them. I don’t think the situation is hopeless.”

“I’m grateful for that. I’ll pass your assessment on to the rest of the command.”

“How did President Hassan react to the news?” Timo inquired.

“I confess, he didn’t seem entirely surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t as confident in his peace treaty as he wanted us to believe.”

“No doubt that’s the case,” the younger general agreed, reflecting privately that the news seemed to confirm his suspicions about Hassan’s intentions, and the extent of the chief executive’s treachery. He wasn’t yet ready to share those suspicions with Gokalp.

“Regarding the eastern border, where do you feel our greatest vulnerability lies?”

“The valleys of Qoter and Sax, north and south of Bianza,” Timo replied without hesitation. “We have a decent chance of holding Bianza Pass, but if the enemy gets too far past that obstacle to the north and south, they’ll look for ways to cross the ridges and get behind Karim’s position. There are no roads that’ll help them, but there are about a thousand goat paths and the like. The Iranians are making a major push in all three places, heavily supported by mechanized units. That’s where they’ve deployed most of their heavy artillery.”

“How bad is the situation?”

“Colonel Karim has fallen back about twelve kilometers from the border. His village has been occupied, but he has a strong position on the first pass the enemy will reach, and I have some reinforcements I intend to send his way.”

“Not your tanks?” Gokalp asked warily. Timo thought it interesting that the senior general didn’t expressly forbid the commitment of the precious Kurdish armor.

“Not the tanks,” he assured his commander. The ranking general went on to query Timo about the size of his forces, the weaponry and supplies available, and if he was surprised to hear how well prepared the border militia was, he gave no indication and fully approved Timo’s orders of the day. A few minutes later, the conversation completed, and he put through another call.

“Yes, General?” Rafiq Jaziri himself answered the phone.

“I need to get through to GOG Center Alpha,” Timo said without preamble. “Nisti Khan is there, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell her to get twenty-three GOGs ready, suited up and fully charged. I’ll be there before midnight with an important assignment. Oh, and have her make sure one more suit is also ready to go.”

* * *

Marivan, Iran

Iranian Revolutionary Guard

I Corps Field Headquarters

General Darius Shamshiri paced restlessly in the large headquarters tent, hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the ornate carpet as if the force of his glare could bore a hole in the ancient, colorful threads. Warm skewers and fruit drinks sat in one corner. Guard generals lived well, but comfort was the last thing in the aging head of the Revolutionary Guard’s elite infantry division. The preliminary news from the front had been about as he’d expected: the lead elements of his three divisions, formed up to assault a trio of wide, generally accessible river valleys leading into the Zagros Mountains—and into the illegally created and soon-to-be defunct “Kurdish Republic”—had breached the frontier with light casualties. The four smaller, battalion-scale feints had also pressed into Kurdish territory, though not as far.

In all places, however, the enemy had been surprisingly well prepared. Picket formations with machine gun and RPG support, concealed by prepared foxholes and trenches, had defended the borders for several hours before falling back to strongpoints in each valley. Those had been well-fortified villages whose approaches were overwatched by camouflaged bunkers with interlocking fields of fire. Heavy machine guns and mortars had added to the firepower of those strongpoints.

Too many trained assault forces and too much time had been lost. Although the Kurds were known to be doughty fighters, Shamshiri was surprised by how well armed they’d been. He’d been told to expect nothing but old men with antique rifles. Militia armed with heavy mortars and shoulder-launched missiles had come as a complete surprise.

He’d been forced to commit his air mobile infantry earlier than he’d hoped, and nearly half the helicopters he’d sent in to assist the attack had been lost. In the end, it had been his big guns, the field artillery the Iranian Army had mustered in great numbers ever since the war against Saddam Hussein’s Iraq in the 1980s, that had finally broken the resistance of the enemy’s light infantry and allowed the three main spearheads to advance.

Now the Iranian offensive proceeded more swiftly. To the north, in the valley of Qoter, his infantry had penetrated more than twenty kilometers, and continued to report good progress. Likewise to the south, in the valley of Sax. But it was in the center, where Shamshiri had hoped to really puncture the enemy’s defensive shell, that the most stubborn resistance had been encountered. He’d lost all four of the precious helicopters he’d sent to support the attack against the village of Bianza, and thus his troops had failed to block the Kurds’ orderly retreat. The hamlet had finally been taken—after Iranian artillery had virtually flattened it—but most of the defenders had been able to retreat.

The general allowed himself a slight smile. He looked forward to what must follow. Then he frowned and paced faster as concern returned. He knew they’d be digging in on the heights of Bianza Pass, a formidable geographic obstacle. In preparation, he’d ordered his artillery batteries forward, but the huge howitzers, which had to be hauled by trucks, took a long time to move. And every minute’s delay, he knew, allowed the Kurds to dig in more firmly and prevented his forces from supporting the armored thrust set to launch the next day.

* * *

Bagdad

Iran

Temple of Command Building

That evening, First Air Marshal and lifetime member of the Supreme Council Hamad Ghazi reported on the disastrous air raid and its aftermath to the Supreme Ayatollah. They met in a small, ornately decorated room adjacent to the mullah’s quarters. Using a pad with camera footage from the survivors, he tried to explain how, in less than half an hour, his command had lost half their total fighter bombers and 20 percent of their fighters. No one knows how the Supreme Ayatollah reacted. The air marshal was never seen again.

* * *

First Summit

Bianza Pass

The long day of battle had finally brought his proud Peshmerga to this natural redoubt, Colonel Karim reflected as he looked along the saddle of rocky ground between two mountainous shoulders. He was proud of his young soldiers. They’d fallen back steadily, but in good order, until they took up formation along the crest of elevation that rose brazenly across the path of the Iranian advance. A few brave fighters had held back and were still showering the advancing Persians with enough small-arms fire to reduce their advance to a crawl.

In the meantime, the rest of Karim’s irregular force had reached the pass and occupied the pre-existing defenses. They had foxholes, firing positions, and covered bunkers, with supplies of food, medicine, and ammunition that had been pre-positioned in deep, cave-like depots. His troops still had a little more than a dozen Stingers left, and the wielders kept their eyes on the sky.

Machine guns looked down the valley from both flanks, covering the long approaches. Some of the guns had been placed on cliffs a hundred meters or more above the crest of the pass. The colonel’s militia had suffered dozens of casualties, but those losses only seemed to solidify the determination of the survivors, who still numbered more than seven hundred men and women. They’d fight courageously, and they’d stand here as long as he asked them to. They, like him, understood there was no ready place to fall back to. Behind them lay the flat, open highlands.

Their tradition had run true. Not a single Peshmerga had run. But there were limits. What would these still new warriors do when the artillery found them again?

* * *

Airspace over Commander’s Quarters

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Darkness came early to the mountains, and Timo could see little beyond the gray clouds as the Black Hawk helicopter bore him upward, entering the overcast before it reached sufficient altitude to pass the surrounding ridges. As soon as he’d attained adequate height, the pilot canted the ship slightly forward, propelling the powerful machine eastward at its top speed of over three hundred kilometers per hour.

Despite the speed of the flight, full night had fallen by the time the chopper slowed and descended toward the original GOG Center. A pair of Humvees, parked on either side of the landing zone, illuminated the bare field with their headlights just long enough for the pilot to identify three other Black Hawks parked around the perimeter of the area, and to guide his own machine to a firm, safe landing in the center of the zone.

The rotors still spun, idling down to a gradual halt as Timo jogged away from the machine, to be met by Sergeant Nisti Khan, wearing her GOG with the visor open to reveal her elfin face and a fringe of her short dark hair. She saluted crisply, the suit’s motors whirring almost soundlessly. “1st Platoon ready for action, sir!” she reported.

“Excellent,” Timo replied, expecting nothing less.

“I’ve selected twenty-three personnel for the mission, as you requested,” she added, “though there are twice that many here who are eager to go, and even the cook volunteered.”

“The rest will get their chance soon enough,” the brigadier replied. He looked behind, satisfied to see a rugged off-road fuel truck rumbling out of the darkness toward the newly arrived Black Hawk. The other machines, he knew, would have been fully fueled as soon as they arrived over the previous hour or two.

“Though, of course, with four helicopters, we could take one more Peshmerga in a suit,” Khan said tentatively. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir…?”

Timo was already striding past her toward the center’s cave, where the GOGs, vehicles, and other supplies were stored. “I’ll be the twenty-fourth,” he explained over his shoulder. “I’ve decided to lead this mission personally.”

If Sergeant Khan was startled by his declaration, or had any objection, she was a good enough soldier to keep her opinion to herself. She’d known he’d been fitted but hadn’t really expected he’d be using the GOG in combat. She hastened after her commander and quickly led him to the tent where his armored suit was being readied.

“All the battery packs are fully charged,” she noted a half hour later, as Timo was strapping the last attachment—his helmet—to the shoulders, back, and breast mounts on his torso.

“Excellent,” he replied. “I want to be in the air in ten minutes.”

The Kurds had discovered, through experimentation, practice, and training, that it was possible for up to six soldiers in armored combat suits, in addition to the two pilots, to squeeze into a Black Hawk. Though long rides were most uncomfortable, as they were too tall to stand or sit on the benches designed for normal troops. It was so crowded that the side gunners stayed behind, and the machines flew with the doors open. This decision was based on the logical assumption that the GOGs could employ their own formidable armament in the aircraft’s defense, if necessary. Now the two dozen armored men and women packed themselves into the four helicopters. Engines roared, and the big rotors chewed through the air. The birds took off sequentially, Timo’s chopper in the lead.

The general activated the local communication channel, and manipulating a menu through a toggle in his glove, called up the drone pictures Captain Duhoki’s reconnaissance battalion had captured during the evening, even after dark. They clearly projected the locations of three batteries of Iranian heavy artillery, six guns apiece. The map showed up on the HUD of each GOG.

There was none of the usual chatter between the soldiers. Timo hoped that was because they were able to talk only by radio. He knew they had to be nervous. While every Peshmerga in the squads were veterans, this was their first combat mission in the suits. No one, not even Timo, was sure if the GOG combat suits would perform as expected. That was why he’d felt he had to be there, taking the same chances, ready for the unexpected or disaster. Also, there was a good chance of meeting an honorable death, avenging his loss.

“The guns have been pounding Bianza Pass since late afternoon,” Timo briefed his squad. “According to Colonel Karim, the fire hasn’t lessened, so we’re fairly certain the guns haven’t moved. The two flanking batteries are almost certainly Russian 130mm tubes that date back to the 1950s. They’re old but reliable. The guns in the middle battery are larger—intel suspects Russian 152mm of later vintage.”

He paused, sensing his soldiers’ attention. Because the suits’ comm connection was so insulated, he felt like he was giving instructions in a conference room with twenty-three listeners rather than in a thunderously loud chopper flying through a black sky with the doors open. “We need to knock them out, and we need to do it fast. We also can’t let them capture a suit. If that happens, we’re all authorized to fire and destroy any GOG in Iranian hands… no matter who may be in it. That includes me. Understood?”

There was a distinct pause before each GOG acknowledged the order.

“Our transport will set us down just south of the valley’s southern ridgeline. We’ll come over the crest on foot. As you can see, there’s a gap of about three klicks between each battery. Sergeant Khan.”

“Yes, General?” the petite woman answered, her tone level.

“You’ll lead a squad of six around the rear of the guns. I want you to hit the northern battery from behind. I’ll give you a lead of ten minutes before I bring the rest of the troop straight up from the south. We’ll hit the southern battery in the flank, take it out, and move on to the middle one. We’ll either join you at the third battery or meet you in the middle if your work is finished.”

“Understood. Team?” Nisti Khan said.

A chorus of assent echoed through Timo’s earpieces. He was satisfied.

Timo pictured the stark battle plan lingering in the minds of the twenty-three suit-clad soldiers, each man or woman wrapped in their own private anxiety, excitement, or anticipation. After thirty minutes of flying over their own country, the Black Hawks descended, following the curve of the valley floor as they carried their lethal passengers into the night along the border.

“I know you Peshmerga will do good work,” the young brigadier general declared as the four aircraft approached the designated LZ. “We’re going to damage the enemy, and perhaps even more to the point, we’re going to terrify him. Inflict as many casualties as you can. When we capture the guns, we’ll turn them into scrap metal by dropping thermite grenades into their breaches and closing them. They’ll be sealed shut… forever. Each of the NCOs has a case of twelve grenades on their backs in lieu of anti-personnel bombs. Finally…” He paused. Timo couldn’t even hear their breathing as they waited for his final order.

“We GOGs will always be few among many enemies. These are invaders who threatened our homes, our land…” Timo had to pause before he could add, “and our families.”

“There will be no prisoners.”

* * * * *

Chapter 20: 24 March, Year 10

Bianza Pass

“We’ve reached the second day of the war,” Lieutenant Werzan observed shortly after midnight, “and the enemy hasn’t made it over the pass.”

Whatever reply Colonel Karim might have made was drowned out by the explosive concussion of another barrage of 130mm shells. The militia commander estimated that something like two dozen of the massive howitzers had been brought to bear on his position. These most recent explosions shattered the rock slope and destroyed a section of the primitive road leading up to the summit. Eight had died there or were buried alive. He couldn’t tell if any more of his young Peshmerga had been killed in the volley.

In his broken heart, he wondered how much it really mattered. It was hard to deny that all these brave, loyal Kurds were likely to die here—die as his wife had died, smashed by the crushing power of the big Persian guns. He cursed in impotent rage, hating that death was being dealt by weapons he couldn’t see and didn’t even know for certain the location of. And yet they continued to devastate the youths he’d watched grow up in his village with violent, devastating accuracy.

But those brave people wouldn’t surrender their lives cheaply. In the brief interval after the latest volley of shells, Karim heard the sharp crump of Kurdish mortars launching their own small bombs from just beyond the crest of the pass. The little tubes were no match for the big, Russian-made howitzers employed by the attackers, but the quick, sharp explosions sparking in the valley below should serve to slow the enemy infantry’s advance and encourage the Iranian troops to keep their heads down. A soldier with his head down has a difficult time finding a target for his rifle.

Other mortars launched flares, and as the magnesium torches blossomed in the sky, hundreds of enemy targets were revealed, mostly lying prone, seeking to claw their way into the rocky ground. The Kurds’ heavy machine guns, high on the slopes above the pass, opened up and rained fat .50-caliber slugs onto the battlefield, chewing up the ground, bursting rocks into splinters, and tearing through flesh when they found one of the exposed enemy soldiers.

When the flares darkened and sputtered out, the guns fell silent—but a few minutes later, more flares ignited, and the carnage began again. The enemy artillery spotters redirected their guns, but the machine gun nests were dug in and protected by overhanging ledges of rock. Both survived the barrages and resumed their lethal rain. Knowing ammunition was a factor, Karim reluctantly ordered parties of Peshmerga volunteers to make the dangerous climb in the darkness, carrying heavy crates of belted ammo up to the two guns.

Even so, as the minutes ticked past through one, going on two hours past midnight, the sporadic firing from down the slope steadily increased in volume and intensity. When the flares fired, Karim could see the Persians darting forward in small groups, seeking momentary shelter behind rocks and gullies, but always popping up again to continue the advance.

Despite the mortars, the rifles, the machine guns, and the RPGs of the Kurds, hundreds of invaders were pressing the attack. And the big guns continued to pound the pass.

* * *

Zagros Mountains

Kurdish Republic Borderlands

The four Black Hawks flew low, without lights, cloaked by the darkness of the pre-dawn hours. The aircraft stayed below the summits of the surrounding ridges, traveling at a sedate and relatively safe hundred and twenty kilometers per hour, seeking a landing zone Timo had located on a detailed map created from satellite imagery and accurate elevation calibrations formed of extensive GPS mapping. They were flying over their own land. Lacking any visual cues, the pilot of the lead aircraft relied on radar imagery, and the pilots controlling the three trailing choppers fixing their formation based on the faint illumination of the leader’s exhaust plume.

Each helicopter bore six Peshmerga, and each soldier wore a fully operational GOG. Men and women fought together, and since he hadn’t selected those going, Timo neither knew nor cared how they were mixed. The bulky suits made for crowded conditions, but everyone knew the short flight would soon be ending. When the choppers began a gradual descent, the Kurds checked their suits’ systems for detection, camouflage, and communication. As the Black Hawks came to rest one by one on the level ground at the foot of a steep, long ridge, the Peshmerga leaped out the open doors and spread—as dictated by instinct and training—into an open tactical formation. With a single command from Timo, they began climbing toward the crest that was visible only as outlined by their superb night vision abilities.

Advancing in long strides, with Nisti Khan and the five members of her group out on the left flank, the Kurdish soldiers in their combat suits scaled two hundred meters of elevation increase in a distance of just over a kilometer in under ten minutes. Each suit was cloaked in the standard flat black of night camouflage and would be virtually invisible to the naked eye of any watcher. To the suited Peshmerga, their comrades glowed with IR markers, gangly gray figures in the IR viewers. The heat generated by the small motors in the elbows, knees, and other joints of the suits showed as a pale shade of red against their otherwise neutral gray forms.

Even before they reached the summit, they could hear—and feel—the power of the big guns in the valley beyond. As the team approached the top, Timo paused and dropped to his hands and knees, the other Kurds following suit. Raising his head until he could see over the crest, he quickly made out the placement of the first two batteries of Iranian guns. Zooming in the magnification of his viewer, he counted the six long-barreled howitzers closest to their position, spread out on the flat valley floor a little more than two kilometers from the base of the ridge before him. Their barrels glowed brightly in his IR viewer. He had to pause and push down his anger at those who were so efficiently killing his people.

A crew of gunners surrounded each big cannon, while a pair of heavy-duty ammunition trucks rumbled up from a depot somewhere unseen, over the horizon to the right. Another truck, presumably emptied of shells, backed around and started eastward along the same track used by the arriving supply vehicles. Scanning back and forth, Timo identified several machine gun nests emplaced around the front and flank of the battery position. Infantrymen carrying rifles actively patrolled the perimeter and manned a checkpoint at the rear of the emplacement, where they stopped each arriving truck and gave a quick visual inspection of the drivers and the contents.

“Sergeant Jarzan,” Timo said, instinctively whispering even within the confines of his suit.

“Here, General,” Herme Jarzan replied. The big Peshmerga, who’d recovered completely from his training accident in the fall, now led a squad of GOGs that anchored the right end of Timo’s skirmish line since the detachment of Nisti Khan’s team of armored warriors.

“Take three GOGs with you, follow those ammo trucks, and find their depot. Use your thermite grenades to good effect.”

“Yes, sir!” the man answered with some enthusiasm. Timo glanced to his right and watched as four of his suited soldiers broke away from the main formation, using the ridge crest for cover as they loped along parallel to the path of the truck they could easily see lurching over the rough track on the valley floor.

Nisti Khan and her team were already out of sight. He knew that she’d be making her way down the far side of the ridge, following his orders to circle around behind the first two batteries to strike the third, northernmost gun emplacement from the rear. That group of a half dozen howitzers wasn’t in his direct line of sight at the moment, but as Timo watched, he saw a flash of light behind a low mound on the valley floor. A few seconds later, he heard the blast of the explosive cannonade and knew that third battery had revealed itself.

After giving Khan and Jarzan a few more minutes to move into position, the general ordered the rest of the team to advance. Taking care to crawl over the crest without revealing even their darkened silhouettes against the skyline, the GOGs spread out and moved easily down the slope in a double line. Some of the soldiers kept low, but dropped ten meters at a time over the occasional cliff that gave this descent an element of steepness, easily avoiding large boulders and trees. For a moment, Timo worried they might be heard approaching. Then three of the nearby guns fired, and he realized everyone in the valley was at least temporarily deaf.

On the valley floor, the GOGs spread into a single line with about twenty meters between each soldier. Timo was in the center. They advanced in long strides, not yet running, but crossing the ground as quickly as a human moving at a comfortable jogging speed. Timo continued to issue orders, directing the two GOGs on the left to obliterate the machine gun nests, while the two on the right were to secure the road leading to the back of the gun emplacement. The rest of them would simply advance through the infantry and the howitzer crews.

Angels of death, the GOGs came out of the night, unseen by the enemy soldiers until they loomed up like monstrous creatures, emerging into the illumination of the headlights, flashlights, and gas lanterns that provided light for the gunners. Sharp cracks from the assault rifles mounted in the right arms of the suits sprayed the exposed Iranians, chewing through the gunners in the machine gun nests before they could even swing their guns to face this sudden, shocking onslaught.

Timo leaped over a machine gun in a foxhole as one of his men opened up on it. He crossed the hundred meters to the nearest howitzer, dropping a half dozen gunners with well-placed rounds before they even saw their attacker. Other Persians swarmed toward them from the rear, firing hastily at the black apparitions in their midst. The general spun and picked them off with short bursts, the suit’s targeting system tracking and aiming, even as the attackers started to dodge and weave. Other GOGs joined in the slaughter, and the combination of rapid-fire and suit-enhanced targeting maintained an efficient, deadly spray of bullets.

The brigadier stalked up to the first gun, the barrel glowing orange in the IR viewer, the breach itself a bright red. Timo took quick note of the make—as suspected, it was a Russian-made 130mm howitzer of Cold War vintage. The long barrel extended like a spear from the block of the gun carriage and its two large rubber tires, with the muzzle more than four meters above the ground.

Pulling one of the thermite grenades from his shoulder pack, he activated the device that opened the breach, threw the incendiary into the barrel, and twisted it closed. The thermite grenade rattled for a few seconds around the loading mechanism. He was already striding toward the next gun when the device ignited, searing the inside of the gun’s works with a concentrated blaze of more than five thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

The area around the breach glowed white in his IR viewer as Timo glanced back, then quickly looked away to preserve as much of his night vision as possible. Within seconds, the gun’s loading and firing mechanism had melted into a lump of useless metal. Though the weapon’s outward appearance was changed but little, the breach could never be opened, and the barrel would never again launch another lethal shell. It would be easier to machine a new cannon than to repair that one.

Trailing a few steps behind the general, another Kurd came up to the ruined gun and smashed the optics viewer so it couldn’t be salvaged and used on a different howitzer. Two more of the guns in front of Timo flared hotly in his viewer, disabled by other GOGs. The two ammunition trucks that had just arrived exploded with a violence that staggered the general and the other GOGs, even a hundred meters away, but the attack pressed on.

Timo stopped firing and surveyed the battlefield. He felt a strange detachment, partly encouraged, he realized, by the protection of his GOG. In his infrared augments, cooling bodies were slightly pink. Rounds fired by his GOGs left a splash of red as they hit, and since his helmet filtered out loud sounds, everything was muted compared to a normal firefight. The smell of cordite and death was completely missing, as his air was all filtered and purified.

Turning completely around, he saw there were no more nearby human targets, though the GOGs on the end of the line were taking care to stalk through the enemy infantry positions. Every so often, Timo saw a short burst of gunfire as a hiding enemy soldier was discovered and dispatched. Reaching the last gun in the line, the general destroyed it with a second thermite grenade, then loped into the darkness beyond the battery. He paused and took a moment to survey the scene of devastation.

Six massive howitzers smoked and steamed, glowing from internal heat that would take hours to disperse. The shells that had been carted to the guns continued to blow up as the trailing Kurds made sure there was nothing useful for the enemy to reclaim from the site. Others were already moving on with Timo, forming up to continue the attack through the dark night.

“Count off,” the general commanded, and his Peshmerga reported in one by one. There’d been no casualties among the GOGs.

Timo switched frequencies. “Sergeant Khan?” he asked.

“Battery three neutralized, sir,” she reported. “No losses.”

“Sergeant Jarzan?”

“We’ve located the depot, and we’re closing in, General,” the young soldier said. He sounded just a little out of breath. “It’s a good fifteen klicks behind the guns.” He chuckled as he added, “Poorly protected, though.”

“Good,” Timo acknowledged. “You know what to do. Sergeant Khan, let’s meet up at battery two and finish the night’s work.”

“We’re already on our way, sir,” she replied, her voice level and confident.

“See you in five minutes, then,” Timo said, signing off. With his fourteen GOGs once again spread into the long line of advance, the commander led his darkness-clad soldiers on to their next target.

* * *

Iranian Revolutionary Guard

Field Headquarters

Infantry Corps

“What do you mean, ‘they’re gone’?” General Shamshiri demanded of the terrified helicopter pilot who’d arrived to make his report. “How can twenty massive howitzers and four hundred men simply disappear?”

Shamshiri had dispatched the pilot just after dawn, after all attempts to signal the 2nd Guard Field Artillery Regiment by radio and field telephone had gone unanswered. In the pre-dawn hours, the HQ staff had been alarmed to feel the impact of a large explosion and subsequently to observe the glow of a large fire and tall column of smoke from the approximate location of the artillery ammunition depot, located in Iranian territory well behind the front. That had occurred at about 0400.

The division’s commander and his artillery chief had assumed some sort of accident had happened. That was a not unheard-of occurrence, considering more than a thousand high explosive shells had been stored at the depot, and many of those laboring there had been forced to do so. The disaster had inspired Shamshiri to order his signalmen to contact the depot first, then each of the three batteries. Only when those attempts had failed, and the gray dawn brightened the skies, had he dispatched his scout helicopter for a firsthand look.

Less than an hour had passed before the scout, a young second lieutenant, returned, sweating and shaken as he presented himself to the corps commander.

“I’m sorry, General, I don’t mean they disappeared, but… it’s just… all the men—almost all, anyway—are dead, and the guns are still smoking. I examined one of them long enough to see that the breach was damaged by a thermal charge! The ammunition depot supporting the regiment has also been destroyed.”

Shamshiri remembered the explosion; in fact, he’d heard it.

“A Kurd raid,” he concluded, “but each battery was guarded by a company of infantry! How could the enemy have snuck in such a powerful force and moved so fast? You say they’re all dead?”

“Er, almost all, General,” the pilot repeated. “I did locate one survivor; I brought him back to headquarters with me, but he’s not making much sense.”

“Bring him in—now!”

A minute later, the lieutenant ushered a wide-eyed private into the general’s tent. The man’s uniform was dark with soot, and he looked around wildly, as if he expected an attack from any quarter. The soldier smelled horrible, and the general wondered if he’d soiled himself.

“Who are you? What was your job?” Shamshiri demanded.

“P-private Abbas Razani, General,” the fellow answered, voice quavering. “Gunner with the second battery.”

“What happened to your battery? What did you see?”

“Th—they came out of the darkness! Tall and black. They raised their hands, and death spit from their fingers. They killed everyone and destroyed the guns. Explosions came from their arms, and they spilled fire into each gun.”

“How did you survive?” the general snarled. “Tell me, by Allah!”

“I was in the latrine when they came!” Private Razani wailed. “I hid under it until they left. There was nothing I could do!”

The general spun around and stalked away in contempt. After a moment, he spun back and glared at the soldier.

“They were Kurds, of course. Did they have uniforms? What units?”

“I—I’m sorry, General… I don’t think they were Kurds. That is, I don’t think they were human beings at all!”

“Not human? What are you talking about!”

“I—it’s just—they were so tall! They moved so fast. I saw one jump right over the barrel of a 152! General, I think they must have been—they were Daeva, sir. Demons!”

* * *

Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

Presidential Palace

Captain Jiwani Doski, commander of the president’s security team, knocked twice on the door of his boss’ office.

“Come in!” Hassan barked, and the handsome officer, resplendent in a formal uniform with red jacket and blue slacks, entered immediately.

“You wanted to see me, Mister President?” he inquired following a crisp salute.

“Shut the door and come over here,” Hassan said, seating himself behind his massive desk. When the captain had obeyed, he looked up at him sharply.

“You’ve heard the reports of a so-called ‘invasion’ along the eastern frontier?” the president asked.

“Certainly, Excellency. Several of my colleagues have been mobilized from the capital to their field units. In light of the hostilities, I’ve doubled the number of guards around the palace and prepared two extra armored cars as escorts should you need to go anywhere by car.”

“Sensible precautions,” Hassan said with a nod, “but these field unit mobilizations haven’t been authorized. We have a rogue general in our ranks who’s determined to take matters into his own hands, to stir up trouble and create a crisis where we should’ve had only calm.”

“But… sir?” Doski said. “I imagine you refer to General Sheen. And true, he is a maverick, not to be trusted, but isn’t activation authorization automatic in the event of an enemy attack? An invasion?”

“If it was a true invasion, of course. The thing is, this is a mere border skirmish, and General Sheen’s been using it to whip up support for his own rash plans. I’ve learned that he wishes nothing less than to incite war with the Islamic Republic of Iran. He doesn’t seem to realize that’s a war we can’t win!”

“I understand, Excellency,” Captain Doski, who didn’t in any way understand, said placatingly. “Do you have instructions for me?”

“Yes. You have your tactical strike force here in the capital, of course?”

“Certainly; they’re ready to deploy on a moment’s notice, sir.”

“Good. I want you to accompany them to the high command, and then the headquarters of the 1st Armored Battalion. There, you’re to place General Sheen under arrest. If Sheen’s not there, you’re to seek him out wherever he is, then return and place General Gokalp under detention, as well. Neither is to be allowed any contact with anyone once in your custody.”

“I’m to… arrest General Sheen?” Doski repeated, eyes widening. “May I ask the charge, sir?”

“Treason. Refusing to obey orders. Manifest insubordination.” Hassan grinned tightly, his teeth clenched as he stared straight into his security captain’s eyes. “It’ll be completely legal, completely in accord with our constitution.” The president pushed a paper across the desk. “I have this warrant filled out and signed. You’re to leave at once.”

* * *

First Summit

Bianza Pass

Colonel Karim lay beneath a flat rock beside the rugged track that crossed the crest of Bianza pass. The rock provided some protection from debris falling in his area, and the shady niche sheltered him from enemy observation, while providing him with a good view down the valley to the east.

Through the hours of the previous night, the Iranian infantry had pressed forward aggressively in the middle of the valley and along the slopes of both flanks. The Kurdish militia had been forced to give ground against superior numbers, and accurate artillery support had obliterated one Peshmerga strong point after another.

Then, shortly before dawn, the big guns had fallen silent. Never lacking in courage, the surviving Kurds had dug in deeper, aimed carefully, and brought the Iranian assault to a dead stop. Hundreds of enemy corpses littered the ground, and their remaining soldiers showed no stomach for renewing the advance.

The second day of the war, like the first, had dawned gray and gloomy, but at least it was dry. Visibility through the binoculars he kept pressed to his eyes remained relatively good as the hours ticked by through the morning and into the afternoon. For a long time, the enemy troops made no attempt to press forward. The artillery barrage had ceased completely, and he sensed that the vulnerable infantry was disheartened by the lack of explosive support.

By midafternoon, he discerned that the Iranians in the farthest forward positions were pulling back. Karim assumed they were regrouping, resting, and replenishing, but he allowed himself to wonder if perhaps they were actually giving up.

As the sun approached the western horizon, the bright orb appeared briefly between the layers of leaden clouds, shining from the western sky over the Kurdish position and onto the bloodied, battered Persians. There was the tantalizing promise of a colorful sunset near the horizon. Seconds later, as if deciding the bloody landscape didn’t deserve such beauty, the overcast closed in, and the daylight continued to fade.

At least the second day of the war had proven far less violent than the first. For the last hour of the daylight, the shooting along the front sparked with some desultory volleys, but then died away. In the last illumination before night, he took the opportunity to try to assess the enemy’s intentions. The militia leader studied the valley below him.

“I see a column of vehicles on the road, several klicks down,” he reported to Lieutenant Werzan, who knelt behind the rock and operated the radio. “I think they’re bringing up a second battalion. The first seems to have quite run out of gas.”

The stop hadn’t been obtained without cost. “A hundred and ten killed or badly wounded,” Werzan had reported with the most recent casualty report. “Another hundred more have been patched up and returned to the line.”

“So we’ve got five hundred or so young trainees to hold what looks like a whole division,” Karim remarked drolly. “The Persians don’t stand a chance.”

He wasn’t serious in that assessment, and each of those slain young men and women tore at him like a scar on his own soul. Most he’d known all their lives. Yet at the same time, he felt a surprising wave of optimism. He pushed himself backward out of the observation post and let another young lieutenant take over. Sheltered by the rock from enemy view, he stood up, brushed himself off, and spoke to Werzan.

“It’s the guns going silent,” he admitted. “I don’t know why it happened, but without their artillery support, I feel like we have a chance to hold, at least for a while,” the colonel concluded, remembering the second battalion moving into attack position. If, as he suspected, they were facing a full division, there’d be more infantry available to support those reinforcements.

At that moment, he heard the distant stutter of an engine that quickly resolved itself as the approach of one or more helicopters. “Stinger crews—get your tubes ready!” he barked. The command was relayed quickly down the line in both directions. Looking over his own positions again, the colonel saw movement in several of his foxholes as the Peshmerga who carried the missile launchers raised their tubes into firing position. The noise of the helicopters grew louder, but Karim could see no sign of any aircraft as he peered down the valley and over the ridges to either side.

“Behind us,” Werzan suddenly warned. Then his tone relaxed. “Two Black Hawks. They look like they belong to us.”

Karim spun around and saw the yellow sun symbol of the Kurdish Republic as the two helicopters, flying low to remain unseen by the attackers east of the pass, turned sideways and came to rest on a grassy meadow near the road, out of sight of the Iranians. The doors were open, and though he couldn’t see into the shadowy interior of the nearest aircraft, Karim recognized Timo Sheen as soon as the general jumped down to the ground.

The colonel and Lieutenant Werzan hastened down the short stretch of slope, saluting. The general’s face had a curiously amused look on it, but Karim forgot about that as he saw something huge, a gangly form in khaki coloring, scramble out of the chopper. Several more of the big figures came behind it.

Timo returned the officers’ salutes, then clasped his old friend in a bear hug. His expression grew somber. “I heard the news about Pergul,” he said softly. “It’s a hard thing to bear. I’m sorry it came to that.”

“I am, too,” the old colonel said, touched by the memory that Timo, too, had lost his wife to this war. “She wouldn’t leave with the other noncombatants. She said her place was in her home, with her fighters. And that’s where she died.”

Karim was deeply moved by the young commander’s sympathy, but at the same time, he couldn’t take his eyes off Timo’s companions. Five of them had emerged from the chopper, and he could see now that they were soldiers of some kind inside robots. Their helmets nearly surrounded their heads, but they had open faceplates, and the colonel saw that two of them were women, and three men. All of them wore the familiar grim visage of veteran, warlike young Kurds. As they stood in a row on the grass, their suits smoothly shifted in color to match the greenery at their feet.

He turned back to Timo, incredulous. “Who, er, what are these people?” he asked.

“Five Peshmerga in armored combat suits—we call them GOGs.” Timo clapped Karim on the shoulder and led the older man away from the soldiers. With typical discipline, the Peshmerga in foxholes and firing positions around the pass stayed at their posts, but many of them stared in awe at the strangely garbed soldiers who’d arrived with Timo.

“Your valley, and this pass, have become the key to our position on the eastern frontier,” the brigadier general explained. “Within a day, we’ll be facing an onslaught along the river. Everyone we have will be needed there. I have to ask you to hold with what you have as long as you possibly can. It’s likely that without artillery, the Iranians will attack at night. These GOGs will help you stop them. That big fellow in the middle is Sergeant Herme Jarzan. I’ve ordered him to employ his team to do everything they can.”

The second helicopter was filled with ammunition, two more machine guns, and medical supplies. Timo remained at the pass for nearly an hour as full darkness cloaked the mountain valley. He toured the front-line positions, encouraging the young soldiers, approving the placements of guns and trenches. The five GOGs walked among the militia, as well, those in the towering suits conversing with the young Kurds, letting them see fellow Kurds inside, encouraging them, and giving them hope of a miracle when the battle resumed.

When the two helicopters and the brigadier general finally departed, Colonel Karim looked at Lieutenant Werzan with a sense of wonder.

“Why do I feel like we’ve just doubled in strength?” he asked, almost to himself. But he wasn’t alone, and he could see it in the faces of the Kurdish soldiers. It showed in the steady posture and calm readiness of the militia. Part of it was the presence of the GOGs. Part of it was Timo’s hearty encouragement.

With pride and sorrow, Karim realized that in two days, his young volunteers had become veteran Peshmerga.

* * * * *

Chapter 21: 25 March, Year 10

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Base Headquarters

Sergeant Major Jaziri had been spending most of his time in the GOG Center, training new volunteers and organizing the powerfully equipped soldiers into companies and battalions. There’d been some debate over what to call the new formation. Two dozen tanks comprised a brigade, but a three-battalion infantry brigade had over two thousand soldiers. He was pleased to reflect that now, with more than three hundred GOGs, he had a force he could realistically refer to as a full brigade.

Though that command was more than a full-time job, he occasionally found himself compelled to deal with the more mundane elements of the army—if the lone tank formation of the Kurdish Republican Army could be considered mundane. In any event, Timo had made himself useful at the front and had tasked the veteran sergeant major with making sure the battalion—including its heavy company, reinforced by US aid up to 35 Abrams M1A2 tanks—would be ready to move when the order was given. Another 48 light and medium tanks formed Bravo and Charlie Companies.

Jaziri had been in the unit’s HQ for a little over two days and hadn’t been surprised to learn that the officers and men had moved with smooth efficiency to ready the powerful armored vehicles for war. The unit’s CO, Colonel Elwand Azi, had assumed command after Timo’s promotion to brigadier, and he had the unit in excellent fighting trim. That wasn’t surprising; after all, this was the elite unit of the regular army, with postings that were highly desired by both officers and enlisted.

All the tanks were in fine working order, their crews ready to roll. The KR’s total allotment of tank transporters, twenty long flatbed trucks, were assembled on the marshaling grounds. Obviously, the tanks would need to be shuttled to the prospective battlefield in several waves, but the camp lay in the foothills of the mountains, and the flat, tank-friendly terrain of the Tigris River Valley lay not far to the south and west. Ammunition and fuel stores, too, had been carefully husbanded and prepared for transport in a large convoy of trucks.

What startled Jaziri more than anything else was the complete lack of direction from either the joint chiefs or the government headquarters in Kirkuk as the war entered its third day. Of course, Jaziri would follow Timo’s orders over any other instructions, but still, he felt there should be some kind of communication from above now that the country was experiencing an enemy invasion. Colonel Azi, sitting and frustrated, had bemoaned the lack of leadership from the young nation’s military and political high command. He’d received one cable from General Gokalp telling him to stand ready to move out, but that had arrived more than 24 hours earlier. Since then, silence.

Though he’d have expected either a telephone or radio message first, Jaziri wasn’t surprised when, well past sunset on the 25th, a convoy of shiny SUVs rolled through the base’s gate and came to a stop before the headquarters building. Each car bore the yellow star insignia of the Kurdish Republic on the door.

The sergeant major, with several junior officers and HQ staff, emerged onto the long wooden porch to greet the new arrivals. Jaziri recognized the first person to emerge from the convoy—Captain Jiwani Doski, head of the presidential security detail.

“Captain Doski,” Jaziri said, offering the dapper officer in his blue dress tunic a salute that was politely returned. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

The captain climbed the steps to the headquarters veranda while a number of men, more than a dozen, emerged from the rest of the SUVs. They wore dress uniforms, suited to their role as palace guards, though each man had a sidearm, and they stood in casual groups, conversing among themselves.

“I have some important news for your chief,” Captain Doski said. “Is General Sheen available?”

“I’m sorry sir, he’s not here,” Jaziri responded honestly. He was a little puzzled by this embassy—he’d expected word from the general staff, or even the presidential palace, but why had Hassan dispatched these men such a long distance without even determining that Timo was present?

“I’m sorry, too,” Doski said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Not precisely. He embarked on a tour of the front. He’s being transported in the battalion’s Black Hawk, and I know he intended to visit multiple locations.”

“A front, you called it,” the captain replied. “Is it your impression that this invasion is actually happening?”

“I’ve seen some of the casualty figures. The Kurds of Bianza Valley have lost more than a hundred fighters in the last two days, but they’re holding firm at the summit of Bianza Pass. And other battles are raging to the north and south of there, though I haven’t seen details on the losses at Sax and Qoter.”

“I see,” Doski remarked, though Jaziri wondered what, exactly, the captain was looking for. “I presume you have a means of reaching the general?”

“I can try,” the sergeant major said, his hackles prickling with an uncanny sense of alarm. “He’s traveling under the call sign of Viper 1.”

“Do, please,” the captain said pleasantly enough.

Yet when Jaziri, with Captain Doski at his side, went to the communications room and asked the signalman to connect him to Viper One, there was no answer. The radioman repeated the call a number of times, but the result was always the same.

“He’s probably in one of the high mountain valleys,” Jaziri said apologetically. “You know how bad reception can be up there.”

“Indeed,” Doski said graciously. “Perhaps my team and I can find accommodations in your barracks? We plan to stay until I can have a word with the general.”

“Of course,” Jaziri replied. He gestured to a nearby NCO. “First Sergeant Talla can make your arrangements—please follow her.”

The sergeant major accompanied the visiting officer to the front door and made sure Talla had the group well in hand. The barracks were crowded, since the full unit was mustered here, but she promised she could find dorm space for the men and a couple of rooms for the captain and his two lieutenants. Only as they disappeared around the side of the headquarters building did Jaziri return to the radio room.

“Try that call again,” he said. “This time, try to get in touch with Viper 2.”

* * *

GOG Center Alpha

Timo had returned to GOG Center Alpha, which had become the main concentration point for the brigade of suit-wearing Peshmerga. He was in the main assembly cavern when he got word that the call, under his proper sign of Viper 2, had come in from Rafiq Jaziri. He hastened to the radio room and spoke with his loyal sergeant major.

“The president’s security chief seeks me? Why did he come all the way to battalion headquarters?”

“Good question, sir. He asked me to contact you via radio. That attempt, er, failed. I seem to have forgotten that you can be reached at Viper 2 on the odd-numbered days of the calendar.”

Timo couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Very good, my old warrior. I fear our captain is up to no good, and I’d like to avoid him a little longer. Can you stall for me?”

“As long as you want, sir, though I wish I was there with you.”

“There’ll be time enough for fieldwork,” the general promised. “The armored battalion is ready to move out?”

“At a moment’s notice, General. Azi is all but chomping at the bit.”

“Good. If my source is as reliable as usual, we’ll have a few more days before the tanks get into the fight, but I’m glad to know they’re ready.”

“And the GOGs, sir?”

“They’ve performed splendidly in the mountains. Enemy losses were near total. I think the secret remains safe, though it’s my hope that some disturbing rumors might be spreading among the enemy ranks.”

“Very good, sir,” Jaziri agreed, not expecting Timo to divulge any more over the air, even on the secure channel. “I’ll sign off, then.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major. I’ll be seeing you soon. In fact, now that I think about it, I think you should head up here without delay. Take one of the vehicles to LZ Three by 2300 hours. I’ll send a Jeep for you.”

By the time Timo emerged from the cave, the Kurds in their armored suits had formed up in long ranks. Full darkness had descended, so they moved from the trees and caverns into the open. A full three hundred and twenty GOGs were suited up and prepared to move out. In addition to a full complement of weapons and charged batteries, each soldier carried rations enough for a week, and two days’ water supplies. Every GOG was also responsible for carrying his own solar recharger—a large, flexible sheet that could be spread out under the sun so it could gather energy to restore the batteries when they became low on power.

Timo stood before the brigade in his own GOG. He didn’t need to speak loudly—the comm systems of the suits worked well enough that his conversational remarks reached every attentive ear.

“Men and women of the Kurdish Republic, my brave Peshmerga. You’re the elite members of a new era in warfare. Each of you has earned your suit through the display of courage and skill, of intelligence and loyalty. You know our nation is under attack, invaded by a foe the whole world believes will master our people, and our lands, with ease.

“Already our comrades in the east have proven the enemy’s initial hopes to be futile. Our brothers and sisters—too many of them—have paid with their lives, but many times their number of Persians have also shed blood on the field of battle. Our people stand strong, but it’s all they can do to hold the line, to fall back stubbornly, and to make the enemy pay dearly for every meter of Kurdish soil gained.

“Soon, they’ll strike us with tanks, hundreds of them, coming north from Baghdad. They’ll be confident. They’ll know they have superior numbers.

“But they won’t know about us, not until it’s time for them to die. Their armies, even the countries of those who threaten the Kurdish people, will go down in obscurity, for it will be the Kurds who live up to our vow. We’ll remember what they’ve done to us, and we’ll make our memory, and our determination, manifest.”

Timo paused.

The soldiers knew what was coming next, and all three hundred and twenty of them joined in the solemn pledge.

“Never again.”

* * * * *

Chapter 22: 26 March, Year 10

Army Davoud

Iranian Revolutionary Guard

I Corps Field Headquarters

Marivan, Iran

General Reza Davoud arrived at the 1st Corps’ headquarters in a massive CH-47 Chinook helicopter. The thunderous roar of the massive machine, and the wash from the two huge rotary wings shook the fabric of the tent behind him as General Shamshiri stepped outside to welcome, with some trepidation, his commanding officer.

The Chinook was escorted by two smaller attack helicopters of Iranian manufacture, single-engine aircraft that buzzed like gnats to either side of the big machine. The commanding general’s helicopter was not only impressive in size and noise, it looked immaculate, with a shiny green coat of paint that allowed the red-white-green emblem of the Islamic Republic of Iran to stand out dramatically. Though, standing there, Shamshiri couldn’t help reflecting that the circular national symbol looked perhaps a little too much like the bull’s eye on a target for comfort.

The twin-engine Chinook, made by the Boeing Corporation of the United States, was a holdover from the pre-revolutionary days, when the shah’s Iran had been an influential American ally. Equipment dating to those days was of course at least a half century old, but the aircraft had been kept in running shape by the careful cannibalization of spare parts from other Chinooks in the Iranian and Iraqi air fleets. Still, it was deemed reliable enough to transport the army’s senior field commander on his important trip to the front.

General Davoud was accompanied by a significant entourage, which included a dozen generals and colonels, as well as his son, newly promoted Major Mazdak Davoud, and a security detail of twelve elite Revolutionary Guards. The younger Davoud was already a hero of this war, having been captured by Kurdish terrorists and escaping during the Battle of Mahabad. The story was well known, thoroughly publicized by the mullahs’ propaganda machine. Mazdak had escaped from the Kurds in a stolen Jeep, but only after inflicting horrible casualties on his captors.

The commanding general himself, tall and manly, with slick, black hair, and a clean-shaven, hawk-like visage, strode forward from the rest of his party. He returned Shamshiri’s salute and preceded the corps commander into the tent. The rest of his party, somewhat ominously, remained outside. Davoud went immediately to the map table and scowled down at the image that had been updated just an hour or so before.

“The 2nd Division is still here, stuck east of Bianza Pass?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid so, General,” Shamshiri explained. “The Kurds are well entrenched on the heights and, as I reported, the division’s artillery regiment was—somehow—neutralized by an enemy raid. Without the support of those heavy guns, the infantry has been unable to push through the enemy position.”

“Yes. I believe the attackers who destroyed those guns were reported to be ‘demons.’ Is that correct?”

“Sir, that was the report of one witness, a terrified coward who hid in filth during the battle. Of course he wasn’t taken seriously!” Shamshiri mentally kicked himself for allowing that initial report to travel up the communications chain of command.

“And other survivors? What do they report?” Davoud asked calmly.

“Sir, the reports are… conflicting. The Kurds, I’m afraid, were murderously effective, and there were no other survivors. We’ve only been able to find six other men who were at the edge of the attacks and lived, and all of them have been terrified nearly out of their minds. Two are incapable of coherent speech, even under forceful interrogation. Two others claim the batteries were attacked by supermen, who towered over them, and ran and jumped with impossible speed. One called the attackers ‘giants.’ And yet one additional wretch, I regret to report, also described the enemy attackers as ‘demons.’ Obviously, these reports are completely irrational. I’ve sent a chemical warfare unit to scour the battlefield with advanced sensors to see if the enemy might have sprayed some kind of nerve agent that had hallucinogenic effects. So far, there’s been no confirmation.”

Davoud nodded. “Let me know if they report anything of substance. It’ll make good propaganda. In the meantime, we need to renew your attacks. The armor offensive will begin in a few days, and it’s imperative that your corps stands ready to push through the mountains into the Kurdish heartland. When I Corps links up with II Armored Corps, the Kurds will be cut in half! Are you and your men up to the job?” the general asked with a hint of menace.

“By the will of Allah and the blessings of the ayatollah, we are!” Shamshiri pledged as his guts turned to water. “Give us another chance, sir!”

“Very well.”

With that, Davoud brought his party of officers into the tent. Shamshiri noted that the staff included high commanders in the air, armor, and artillery forces.

“I’m calling up our last two reserve regiments of artillery,” the high commander declared as his subordinates took notes. “They can travel by rail as far as Mahabad. I want plenty of truck transport available there to haul the guns up to the I Corps sector. General Shamshiri is to be provided with a second wing of helicopter assault troops, as well as two squadrons of fixed-wing ground attack aircraft. A squadron of fighter aircraft will also move to the northwestern sector to be prepared in the unlikely event the enemy presents us with an aerial threat of his own. This is a significant part of our reserves and reflects how important a quick advance is.”

He glared at the attentive officers. “We don’t know what the Kurds used, but it was clear our guns were attacked by a powerful, fast-moving force. Therefore, I want each artillery battery protected by a full battalion of infantry, as well as a company of light tanks. The enemy won’t get away with such sabotage again!”

* * *

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Headquarters Building

First Sergeant Gera Talla looked up from her desk just after 0800, as Captain Doski of the presidential security team entered the HQ. “Good morning, sir,” she said pleasantly. “I trust you got a good night’s sleep.”

“Perfectly fine,” the officer replied graciously. “Thanks for finding quarters for me and my men. Now, can I see Sergeant Major Jaziri?”

The sergeant, who wasn’t the least bit puzzled, looked puzzled. “The sergeant major, sir? But he departed for the front before midnight last night. I don’t think he knew you were expecting to see him.”

“He knew damned—” Doski stopped himself, and the anger faded from his eyes. “He was going to let me know when General Sheen arrived. I don’t suppose the general’s come back to headquarters?”

“No, sir,” Talla said. “I understand he’s also visiting the troops at the front. There’s been some fierce fighting there.”

“The Iranians are pressing hard, then? In what kind of strength?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure, of course, sir.” She paused briefly, and he could see her thinking fast. He could understand why she was worried, dealing with an officer who had the president’s ear. It was far from the first time he’d seen a clerk hesitate, realizing they were beyond their depth. Finally, she spoke quickly. “I know our Intel people have been getting a lot of reports. I could arrange a briefing for you if you’d like.”

Doski nodded, showing that he was mollified. “Yes, that would be excellent. As soon as possible, if you don’t mind. I need to head back to Kirkuk this morning. It doesn’t seem as if there’s much more I can do here,” he added in a neutral voice, knowing Talla wasn’t sure whether his tone was wry or bitter.

“Perhaps you’d like to take some tea and break your fast in the mess hall, sir,” the first sergeant said regaining some confidence. “I’ll find Colonel Azi and see what we can put together in the way of an update.”

“Very good,” the captain concluded.

He departed to organize his men, make sure his convoy of SUVs was refueled, and grab some food. Talla, in the meantime, found her CO and explained the situation. “He came here looking for General Sheen and then expected to find the sergeant major this morning. I don’t think he’s telling us everything, but he’s going back to report to President Hassan.”

“I’ll give him everything we have, including pictures. It won’t hurt to convince him of what we’re up against,” the slim, gray-bearded tank commander replied. “I’ll get Captain Duhoki to print up a report and prepare some slides. Bring him to the briefing room in, let’s say… thirty minutes.”

In that short time, the intelligence captain put together an impressive graphic display, which he projected onto a large smart screen at the front of the room. While Doski’s ten enlisted men waited on the shady veranda, he and his two lieutenants took seats and listened as Duhoki and Azi diagrammed the extent of the Iranian attack.

They highlighted the three spearheads punching up the adjacent valleys of Qoter, Bianza, and Sax. He included photographs that had been obtained by drones overlooking the enemy force, as well as ground-level shots captured by Kurdish officers using digital cameras and radio uplinks.

“Our casualties stand at over four hundred killed, and three times that many wounded,” Colonel Azi reported, reading from the most recent dispatches. “The Bianza militia is still holding at the pass. They seem to be facing the majority of attackers; we estimate an entire Revolutionary Guard infantry division. The other Iranian columns have paused, perhaps waiting on them. Bianza seems to be the most serious obstacle in the enemy’s path right now.” He paused then added, “It’s also the last bottleneck before they erupt onto the open steppes.”

Captain Doski might have been skeptical to begin with, but by the end of the presentation, he seemed quite convinced that the threat to the Republic was genuine. “Where’s General Sheen in all this action?” he inquired as the slide show concluded.

“On the move, as you’d expect,” Azi said smoothly.

“Certainly. And well done,” Doski replied. Ten minutes later, he and his men entered their half dozen SUVs and drove out the camp’s gate, heading down the road back to the capital.

The security captain picked up his radio and put a call through to the presidential palace. He spoke directly to the president’s chief of staff, Dukan Ciwan. “We’re returning to the capital by car. No success. Please ask President Hassan to authorize a helicopter so we can continue the mission. We should be back to the city by 1800 hours at the latest.”

Then he signed off, leaned back in his seat, and continued to think about what he’d learned.

* * *

Foothills

Zagros Mountains

100 Kilometers SE of Kirkuk

It was the start of the day. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the sky was filled with golden clouds and a gentle breeze as he stirred. Timo had woken early; nightmares featuring his lost wife and child had come again. He was in his GOG and waiting as his Peshmerga formed up. Each squad of eight stood together, eight squads forming two long lines. Timo looked proudly at the GOG armored warriors. He also worried about the burden they must carry.

By any conventional measure, the KDR was doomed. The advancing Iranian column now totaled over two hundred tanks of all types. The Iranian 1st Corps was pressing at every pass. It was inevitable they would eventually break through even the most determined villagers. His GOGs—so few against too many—had to make up the difference.

The young leader looked at the command display projected on his HUD, showing the two hundred and eighty GOGs and their officers arrayed in perfect rows, and the twenty GOGs of his headquarters force in a line facing them.

It wasn’t easy to snap to attention in a GOG suit, but virtually everyone tried when the Armored logo was projected on their HUD, and their general began to speak.

“I should give you a stirring speech about how the future of our nation depends on what we do in the next few days, but you already know that.” The pause might have been dramatic, but the real reason was that Timo found his mouth had dried up. After a sip from his suit, he continued.

“There are problems. No one knows how effective our GOGs will be against tanks. We’re unable to fly in; we have to walk. Russian satellites would report any substantial helicopter formations to the Iranians immediately. That creates another concern, as we’re still short on batteries. More are coming, but we’ll need to depart before Tang Industries can deliver them.”

The GOGs were powerful and fitted to each Peshmerga, but they were hardly comfortable. Two or three days would chafe points where the suits rubbed into open sores. Timo expected to be as uncomfortable as any, probably more so, as he had less time and experience in a GOG.

“Still, we have one real advantage, and for the next few days, it may be the decisive one.” He paused again, this time for effect. “The enemy, the mullahs’ butchers, don’t know we exist, much less what you’re capable of. The longer we remain a mystery, the greater their dread, and the more likely we few will be able to stop them.

“That leads to a difficult command. It’s imperative that the Iranians don’t capture an intact suit. We aren’t supermen, just a highly mobile and well-armed mystery. We can’t kill every invader, but we can intimidate them all. That means if any of us are incapacitated, killed, or even unable to move, the first concern is that your GOG be destroyed… even if you’re still in it.

“My brave Peshmerga, I can’t order you on what, for some, will be a suicide mission. The choice is yours. I know you’re all willing to die to protect our new nation, but what I ask of you is much harder than that. Anyone who won’t use all your weapons to destroy any other GOG in danger of capture, no matter who’s in it or their condition… any of you who can’t, for the good of our people, sacrifice the comrades and friends standing with you now, step out of the formation and return to the cave. You, who may be the only survivors, will still have an honorable role, training the next generation of GOGs.”

The suits didn’t move, but there was a rustle among the assembled men and women.

“Again, any of you who’ll not only die for our people but kill our own to protect our secret a few more weeks, retire to the cave now. If you have doubts that you can do what’s needed, I order you to step out of formation. Do so now!”

The few seconds of silence seemed to last forever. Timo was glad no one was likely monitoring his vitals, as he felt his heart race as he waited, fearing they’d lose too many. No one moved, not a single GOG. It was Sergeant Major Jaziri’s voice that broke the silence after almost an entire minute.

“Never again!”

“Never again!” the promise echoed as every GOG tripped their mike and repeated what had become their war cry.

Timo was unable to reply. He stood there, humbled that every warrior had stayed in their place. Then he turned and walked out of the camp, to the start of their long road to the war. The noncoms’ voices trailed off as they switched to their unit channels, and one squad after another fell in behind him.

* * *

They rested after six hours and stopped to fully recharge both of their batteries in the afternoon sun. Timo had been relieved to see on the command screen, which he could virtually project while in his GOG: not a single suit had shown a mechanical failure. The march continued at sunset. The column of three hundred GOGs, traveling at night, managed to make its way down from the mountain camp where the unit had assembled, crossing roads, traversing farms, even utilizing several bridges to pass by significant streams, and doing it all without being discovered by a single person. They traveled through friendly territory, but Timo wanted to maintain the secret of the unit’s existence for as long as possible, so he’d insisted on complete security while the unit was on the move.

In flat-black night camouflage and well dispersed—the march column was more than a kilometer long—the GOGs glided along at a speed much faster than foot soldiers could march, and they traversed terrain that was far too rugged for any vehicle to drive across. When possible, they stuck to the cover of forests or remote fields. Sometimes they followed gullies or splashed along the courses of shallow creeks. Their route took them steadily downhill, and by dawn—after ten hours of steady progress—they concentrated in a small but secluded valley Timo had selected for their first bivouac.

The GOGs had covered more than a hundred and seventy kilometers before the eastern horizon, still shrouded in gloomy clouds, brightened. By then, all the suits’ batteries were nearly depleted. They’d marched all night without drawing power to operate weapons and communications systems, but even so, they’d reached the absolute limit of two batteries’ power storage capacity. Rather than using their backup batteries and ending up powerless, Timo informed his GOGs that they’d spend the morning there, personnel sheltering in a grove of pines, while the recharging sheets were laid out over a secluded field the size of a small farm.

The Kurds spread the dark khaki panels of the solar collectors in neat rows with narrow aisles between them. The batteries were stored in groups of eight, positioned where the corners of four square-shaped collector blankets came together. The suits were charged from each GOG’s backup battery, and then laid out just inside the grove of pines, concealed underneath a pile of needles and branches. Troopers, sore and sometimes bleeding under arms and where legs joined, collapsed near their GOGs.

For a while, the young general was briefed and gave orders. Then he used his command screen to get a weather report. Timo was privately worried that the overcast would linger, thus limiting the solar power available for recharging, but that was an issue beyond his control. Even if the day remained cloudy, they’d be able to gain at least a half charge, allowing them to move again during the coming night. About the only thing that could really impede them would be a lot of precipitation, which would limit the batteries’ charging to a bare trickle.

After seeing to the placement of his brigade in bivouac and making sure Sergeant Major Jaziri had taken charge of posting sentries, he checked in on the two 12-GOG teams he’d detached from the main formation. Each team was led by an intelligent, experienced sergeant, a veteran of the fight against Daesh and the war for independence. They’d been charged with assisting the defense in the valleys of Qoter and Sax, where the Iranian infantry had made altogether too much progress toward the Kurdish heartland.

“When you reach the Kurdish positions,” Timo reiterated in those conversations, “I don’t want you to take up static positions with the militia. Instead, your orders are to harass and terrify the enemy rear echelons. Move fast, strike hard, disrupt supply lines, and destroy supporting weapons and vehicles. Stay concealed as much as possible—and when you attack, make it count. If you engage a larger unit, it might be a good idea to leave at least one man alive.”

Confident that his orders would be followed, even though the militia retreating up those two valleys were being hard-pressed by the Iranian advance, Timo next sat down with Rafiq Jaziri, Nisti Khan, and a dozen others he’d begun to regard as “his” Peshmerga to review the progress of the GOG and their plan moving forward.

The three hundred GOGs of the 1st GOG Brigade had been organized into three battalions of a hundred armored warriors each. Full colonels—newly promoted from among the young officers who’d shown exceptional initiative, talent, and intelligence during training—commanded each battalion. These units, in turn, were broken into nine 11-GOG companies, with a captain in charge of each company. One of these was a headquarters company, tasked with supporting the colonel; the other eight included a junior officer, usually a lieutenant, as well as a sergeant and at least one more NCO.

“We may not be able to make as much distance tomorrow night,” Timo told his subcommanders. “Unless we get a resupply, it’ll be hard to generate enough charge for all the batteries. I won’t risk having less than one set with a full charge in each. We made better than a hundred and fifty kilometers last night, and I’d like to do that again. That’ll put us on the flank of the Iranian column advancing up the eastern side of the Tigris.”

“What of the enemy’s intent?” asked Colonel Beng Kardo, commander of the 1st GOG Battalion. “How much time do you think we have?”

“Unknown at present,” Timo admitted. “The original timeline, as determined by our intel, had their armored divisions striking hard yesterday, to join up with the infantry that’s supposed to be pouring out of the mountains. But the enemy infantry is badly behind schedule, so we don’t know what effect that’ll have on the overall timing.”

He looked around, approving of the quiet confidence he observed on the alert, weathered faces. These Peshmerga were older than the militia he’d seen fighting under Hernan ibn Karim, but like all Kurds, they shared a grim purpose, a stubborn determination founded on courage and a history of suffering and survival. He was immensely proud of all of them. Knowing how many were likely to be sacrificed in the coming battle was a gnawing pain.

“Everyone is to get as much rest as they can. Sentry rotations every two hours. The most important things are to get some sleep, and to stay out of sight during the day. We move as soon as we’re fully recharged. The Republican Guard armor has already entered the Republic. If you encounter some farmer or hunter in the woods, remember, we’re simply soldiers of the Kurdish Republic. They can’t know anything about the GOGs.”

The three hundred solar collectors lay for several hours below skies as gray and cloudy as all the past days. By midmorning, they’d restored the first of their two batteries’ charge, but the second batteries were charging at barely 40 percent of capacity. No matter what the Iranians did, they’d be unable to act until later in the day.

Timo spent the day communicating with the commanders, coordinating the defensive line. The defenses would be thin, but solid, with his armor the only reserve. He’d been unable, as had other commanders along the front, to reach the Peshmerga’s 2nd Division and its support elements. They were to move from facing Syria to a position being prepared to face the more cautious advance of the Iraqis west of the Tigris. The young general hoped it was merely because of radio security, as there were no reports of a Syrian reaction. Timo knew he wasn’t as effective as being at HQ, but he was also aware that by any normal measure, the Republic’s forces weren’t going to stop the entire Iranian army. Sheer numbers would eventually prevail. For them to survive would take a miracle, and he was staying with the only miracle they could hope for—three hundred determined Peshmerga in their GOG suits.

* * * * *

Chapter 23: 27 March, Year 10

Kirkuk

Presidential Office

Captain Doski had been passed directly into President Hassan’s office by one of the many beautiful women who worked on the floor outside. After being ordered to rush back, the security officer had found himself waiting on a wooden chair in a corner of the president’s empty office for almost two hours. The delay, he rationalized, was understandable. Now that the president realized the scope of the crisis, he must be torn in a dozen directions, trying to rally the people and gain international condemnation of the mullahs.

It was the first time he’d spent any time alone in the office, and it gave him a chance to look around as he waited on one of the four straight-backed wooden chairs that faced the Kurdish president’s desk. The furniture was classically styled, with one side of the large room dominated by a desk made from a wood so dark, it appeared almost black. The top of the three-meter-wide desk was clear, except for a computer, currently turned off, and a framed picture of Hassan addressing the United Nations. Doski remembered accompanying Hassan on that trip, his first official state visit after taking office, and one of his first duties. Though Hassan was the second man to hold the Kurdish presidency, he’d been the first to address the General Assembly.

On the far side of the room was an oval table with eight padded leather chairs around it. All were made from the same type of wood as the desk. The officer speculated that it might be mahogany. Most of the wall beyond the table was covered by a large monitor. The walls were empty with two exceptions.

A row of windows a meter high lined the top of the wall behind Hassan’s desk. They let in the later afternoon light but were too far up the wall to allow a view in or out. The first time he’d entered this office, he’d thought their placement was a good security precaution. The room’s only entrance was on the left side of the wall the president faced while seated. Across the rest of that wall were over a dozen pictures—paper, not digital—of Hassan shaking hands or speaking to other nations’ leaders.

Doski stood when Hassan arrived. The security officer was surprised to see that the top official seemed surprisingly relaxed, considering the military situation, even smiling. The president was also carrying his personal briefcase, which contained a secure communication link he could use while traveling. Doski assumed he’d just traveled somewhere, though there’d been no record of it waiting in his daily security summary.

“Captain, I assume you’ve failed to capture General Sheen?” Hassan’s mood changed abruptly, and he spoke in clipped tones before even sitting down.

“He’s somewhere in the field,” Doski explained as levelly as he could. “Considering the current situation, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to fulfill the original orders.”

Hassan clouded up immediately, his face reddening.

“If I wanted your orders changed, I would have changed them!” the president spat with some vehemence as he sat down and turned on his computer. “It would have been much better if you’d captured Sheen. Much better.”

“But the Iranians—” Doski began to ask.

“A border incursion.” Hassan stopped and stared at Doski as he spoke, daring him to disagree. “I’ve been assured it’s a misunderstanding. Some of their units reacting to provocations from the armored commander.”

“The passes—” the captain protested, remembering the briefing he’d gotten that morning.

“Are not your concern.” The president’s tone hardened even more. “You’re to capture Sheen and bring him here. If you can’t, I’ll find a new security chief who can.”

“Yes, sir!” Doski snapped, more than a bit intimidated. The president was vehement and visibly agitated. Then, like a switch had been thrown, Hassan relaxed, and he spoke calmly, sounding almost pleased. “I’ve made personal arrangements that guarantee our insubordinate general will be at the Western Force headquarters no later than tomorrow. You’re to wait quietly in General Sepan Rekani’s office with three of your most trusted men. Sheen won’t expect you there. Do whatever it takes to bring him here, preferably in shackles. If he resists, you’re to use deadly force. Leave immediately and tell no one else where you’re going. Understand?”

Doski wondered what General Sheen had done to warrant arrest in the middle of an invasion. Normally, he might have asked, but today he was confused enough not to challenge the intense stare Hassan had fixed on him. The president was in no mood to be questioned, even for further information that might help Doski complete his assignment. He’d have to get the rest from General Rekani. The security head simply nodded, saluted, and walked to the door.

“I want Timo Sheen dead!” the president called after him as the door closed behind the captain.

* * * * *

Chapter 24: 28 March, Year 10

Bianza Pass, 7:00 am

The rainy weather of the 27th had given Colonel Karim’s militia a chance to rest and recover, as the enemy troops made no move to resume their offensive in the wet, muddy conditions. A pair of Black Hawks, equipped to carry stretchers, made multiple round trips from the pass to the central hospital in Kirkuk, allowing the most severely wounded Peshmerga to be evacuated. The rest, of course, would ignore their wounds to the extent possible and remain on the pass.

Late in the day, a convoy of trucks growled up the western approach to the pass. The big 2.5-ton vehicles, numbering a dozen, had been dispatched on General Gokalp’s orders from the army’s quartermaster depot. They halted below the crest of the pass, well out of enemy observation. They carried food, medical supplies, ammunition, and a few more Stingers.

Their arrival came as a great relief, as many of the Peshmerga had less than fifty rounds, and their reserves had been passed out the night before. The vehicles were unloaded quickly by a hundred willing hands. The supplies were organized under camouflaged tarps, and the empty trucks, headlights dimmed, started down the narrow mountain road after dark. The Iranians made no attempt to interfere with the resupply.

Overnight, the skies finally cleared, however, and the 28th dawned with the first uninterrupted view of the sun since before the war had begun. As it crested the eastern horizon, dawn’s bright rays shone straight into the eyes of the Kurds dug in at the top of Bianza Pass. Unsurprisingly, the Iranians immediately seized the advantage. Waves of infantry broke from shelter on the still dark valley floor and started forward at a run. Thick shadows obscured the enemy infantry at first, but the Peshmerga discerned the movement and commenced a steady crackle of small-arms fire. Every so often, one of the heavy machine guns mounted high on the cliffs erupted with a burst of slugs, sending thunderous echoes reverberating down the valley.

Shading his binoculars, Colonel Karim knelt beside the road at the summit and tried to get a handle on the attack. He swiftly concluded that more than a thousand enemy soldiers advanced below them. “I’d say three battalions,” he muttered to Lieutenant Werzan as the junior officer joined him. He pointed to still more troops mustering in the rear of the enemy position.

The violent racket of rifles and machine guns was suddenly overwhelmed by a crashing barrage of artillery shells that plummeted onto the pass. More than a dozen plumes of fire and rock erupted from the ground, clouding the air to the west, and stunning the colonel so seriously that he staggered and almost fell.

“More guns,” Werzan acknowledged grimly. He pointed at the shallow, rock-covered spot where the colonel had set up his command post. “Best to observe from the bunker, sir.”

Too wise to argue with this good advice, Karim crawled under the flat rock and again pressed his binoculars to his eyes. Werzan took up a post right beside the bunker and was joined by a female signalman who carried a powerful field radio.

Additional shells fell on the valley floor, into the bullet-torn ground between the two armies, and the explosions released thick clouds of white smoke. A few more volleys followed, and within minutes, the Kurds’ entire view downward was obscured. The thick, gray smokescreen roiled upward, misty tendrils drifting through the pass, thick and impenetrable below, even as the serene blue sky brightened above.

Karim looked up to the machine gun nests to either side and saw that they remained above the cloud—small solace, as their potential targets were still hidden. He spotted movement on the slope below one of the nests, and when he looked carefully, he spotted one of the GOGs, moving crablike, feet first, down the precipitous incline. You had to know what the suits looked like to even catch a hint of their presence. The soldier in the armored suit was almost invisible, so perfect was the stone-colored camouflage of his garment.

“They have sensors in their helmets,” Werzan, who’d taken time the previous day to acquaint himself with their high-tech reinforcements, explained. “I expect they can see enough to at least locate some targets through the smoke.”

Karim nodded, impressed. He’d dispatched one GOG to each of the two lofty gunnery posts. The suited Peshmerga had been able to carry multiple crates of ammunition on each climb, so they’d made sure the nests were well provisioned, and then had remained above to keep an eye on the situation. Turning to look at the other machine gun position, he detected the shifting pattern of that GOG, too, slowly moving downward.

“They can talk to each other, too,” the lieutenant added. “Helps a lot to coordinate.”

“No doubt,” the colonel agreed, “though I don’t think even a suit like that will protect them against a 130mm shell.”

For interminable minutes, the artillery continued to bombard the Kurds on and in front of the slope. The sound of their explosions rumbled and thundered up the valley. All the defenders were dug in, but even a reinforced concrete bunker couldn’t withstand a direct hit by the massive high-explosive rounds, and few of their positions had the benefit of such a bunker. The rounds were mixed with additional smoke, ensuring the enemy advance remained masked. He made the decision to pull those on the forward line back up the slope. Most even made it.

It was a miserable hour later before indistinct shapes, the figures of dodging, climbing Persian soldiers, became visible in the fog. When the Kurds made visual contact with the enemy, they opened up a lethal chatter of small-arms fire, and within a minute, the first rank of attackers had been decimated, the survivors forced to take shelter in any irregularity of the ground they could find.

The smoke cleared under a freshening wind, and finally—small blessing—the Iranian soldiers were so close to the Kurds that their guns had to lift the barrage so they didn’t pound their own troops. Sometimes at ranges as short as fifty meters, the attackers and defenders blazed away at each other in a scalding hot firefight.

For the time being, the battle was waged with small arms, and the Kurds, holding the higher ground, had the advantage. But the Iranians had the numbers and were clearly driven forward by a ferocity they hadn’t previously displayed. Whole companies of soldiers rose to their feet and charged, firing from the hip, before sprawling prone behind the next patch of cover the rocky ground provided.

Kurds popped up from their holes and trenches, firing single rounds or short bursts. Here and there, one launched an RPG, the projectile tumbling toward the enemy and usually exploding in place to inflict wounds on multiple enemy soldiers. The mortar platoon kept lobbing shells down the slope, and those violent blasts spat lethal shrapnel and shards of stone through the Iranians. The Peshmerga’s marksmanship remained accurate as ever, but from the volume of fire, the colonel knew his militia’s numbers had been brutally reduced by the long, punishing barrage. He felt an immense swell of pride, mingled with grief, at the courage displayed by the surviving young men and women who’d never seen combat until five days earlier.

Turning his binoculars down the valley again, Karim saw several tracked vehicles rolling carefully up the valley, lurching and bobbing as they negotiated the rough ground next to the road. “Here come the APCs,” he told Werzan, pointing. “See if the mortars can engage.”

The lieutenant signaled the spotters for the light bomb-launching tubes while the colonel continued to observe. Behind the APCs, also moving off road, he spotted a few large-wheeled trucks following the armored infantry movers. He tried to visually estimate the distance and reckoned the trucks—soft-skinned targets though they were—remained out of mortar range, at least for the time being. Then he stared in amazement as one by one, the trucks burst into flame. One, obviously carrying high-explosive ammunition, vanished in a sheet of flame and smoke. Another one toppled onto its side as if smashed by an invisible force.

He barely made out three lanky shapes, sprinting like birds hunting on a beach, moving through the smoke and flame of the wrecked supply convoy. He knew the GOGs, at least a trio of them, must have made their way down from the ridge and used their own smoke to get to the enemy’s vulnerable rear area. He followed the progress of their lightning attack as more explosions erupted. Enemy soldiers, barely visible in his binoculars at this distance, scattered like ants that’d just had their hill kicked apart. Awestruck, Karim silently pleaded for the armored soldiers to get away while they still could. He couldn’t determine their fate in the smoky distance.

He heard the hum of the light attack craft seconds before a blossom of fire erupted along the crest of the pass as a series of napalm bombs rattled across the ground. Still in his bunker, Karim pressed himself flat on the ground, putting his hands over his helmet as the back of his neck and his exposed hands blistered. A cloud of lethal heat surrounded him, and he forced himself to hold his breath, burying his face in the gravel while his lungs demanded he draw a breath of air. Worst of all, he heard the screaming of too many of his soldiers, caught by the infernal flame.

After an interminable time that had been mere seconds, the fire settled down, and the colonel drew a hacking, smoke-filled breath that he immediately coughed out. Gagging and choking, he crawled out of his bunker and tried to look around, blinking tears from his stinging eyes. He saw blackened corpses and scorched, smoking ground. A blackened figure emerged from the other side of the bunker, and he barely recognized Lieutenant Werzan, with his helmet smoking, and his face dark with soot. His eyebrows and half his mustache had been burned away.

“Ground attack fighters!” Werzan barked, somehow finding his voice and keeping his wits. He pointed to a pair of fixed-wing aircraft that had streaked, unnoticed, over the Kurdish position, flying at high speed. The two jets parted to sweep around and approach in another bombing run from the west.

The colonel remembered the railgun, positioned to fire to the east from a rocky shoulder above the pass. Timo had told him it could be an effective anti-aircraft weapon, but the sudden appearance of the tactical bombers had caught them all by surprise. Cursing the missed opportunity, he looked up at the gun and was startled to see the two remaining GOGs lifting and swiveling the heavy device with apparent ease. They set its wide tripod base on a flat rock and stepped back to let the team of three gunners track the approaching planes. Both jets settled into a side-by-side bomb run, roaring toward the Kurds on the mountain pass.

The railgun fired with neither a loud report nor a recoil, but Karim gaped in astonishment as the lead attack plane simply shattered in the air, falling to the ground in a cloud of torn metal, flaming fuel, and dead pilot. The second plane veered quickly from its approach, banking southward and vanishing over the ridge without finishing its bombing run.

“One threat neutralized,” he reflected, amazed.

But he was quickly reminded that there were too many other threats to resist. After the long stalemate of the close-range fight, the leading edge of the Iranian infantry pulled back, units leapfrogging each other until they’d backed half a kilometer or so down the slope. Colonel Karim felt the sickening certainty that this wasn’t a retreat.

He felt a wave of hopelessness as the artillery volley resumed. Sheltered in his bunker again, he watched in despair as one, then the other heavy machine gun nest on the high slopes was targeted, bracketed, and finally destroyed in a shower of tumbling talus and scree. When the gunners shifted to lower targets, the damage revealed was so severe, Karim couldn’t even make out the outcrops where the .50s had been posted.

For a long time, the barrage continued, maiming, deafening, and killing his brave Peshmerga by increments throughout the brutal afternoon. At 1800, he and Werzan split up to make careful assessments, moving through the trenches from foxhole to foxhole, offering words of encouragement that seemed hollow to the officer, though they visibly heartened the young soldiers. An hour later, the pair met at the summit and compared notes.

“We’ve lost half our people,” Karim acknowledged sadly. Werzan agreed. Two GOGs had been completely destroyed by a direct hit, and the railgun had also been destroyed by artillery; they couldn’t know the fate of the three armored soldiers who’d made the lightning raid through the enemy’s rear. But lightning raids wouldn’t win the battle, nor even hold this position.

“We have no choice but to retreat,” the colonel said. “We’ll pull back at full darkness.”

Word was passed by radio, hand signal, and word of mouth. The wounded were brought through the pass by litter carriers, mostly mothers and older children, during lulls in the bombardment and collected in a meadow two kilometers down from the summit. Karim spoke to Army HQ and arranged for as many medical evacuation flights as could be arranged. Several of the Peshmerga lit gas lanterns near the wounded to mark a landing zone. Using an idea American soldiers had invented during the Vietnam War, they placed the lanterns in cylindrical barrels so they were mostly invisible from the ground, but could be seen clearly by helicopters flying overhead.

The rest of the Peshmerga—all those who could walk or limp on their own two feet—pulled back from the pass in small numbers, carrying their weapons and helping those who had difficulty walking. Karim, heartbroken, counted a little more than two hundred fighters making their way down from the pass.

At least that many—already beyond pain—would remain at their positions, sanctifying the ground they’d paid for with their lifeblood. The Iranian barrage continued through the night, a thousand more shells pummeling ground that was now abandoned. Werzan and Karim were the last two Kurds down the mountain road, and they reached a point almost ten kilometers from the summit before dawn. There was no position in between that offered any hope of a successful defense.

They could still hear the impact of the massive shells, but they knew, sooner or later, the bombardment would cease, the Persians would advance, and the enemy would learn Bianza—his home—had fallen.

* * * * *

Chapter 25: 29 March, Year 10

Frontier

Kurdish Republic

Sergeant Nisti Kahn shifted her shoulders, trying to relieve the pressure on the soft areas under her arms that were chafed raw. Her left underarm felt wet and was likely bleeding. She fought down resentment that she was still in her GOG. Most of the regiment was out of their suits and trying to rest. Someone had to pull sentry duty, and her squad was up first. They were the only Peshmerga still suited up. Even rushing and with help, it took at least five minutes to completely don and activate a GOG. Effectively, her squad’s eight GOGs were the only armed force protecting the entire regiment.

The sky was overcast, and a light rain started and stopped as she surveyed the empty terrain. The small woman opened her visor and breathed deeply. The air was sweet with the smell of recent blooms. It had rained enough to knock down the dust, and there was a moist freshness. The first warning Nisti had was the sight of an armored vehicle cresting a hill less than a mile away. It was quickly followed by two more. Closing her helmet and zooming in, Nisti saw they were Russian-made BDRM scout cars. Seconds later, the grinding roar of their diesel engines was audible. They were the common type with a 14.5mm heavy machine gun mounted in a small turret. The guns were likely heavy enough to tear her GOG apart. She tensed as she alerted Timo and Akam, who were about half a kilometer on the other side of the approaching Iranians.

“Akam,” she ordered, “approach only under cover and prepare. Wait until the mullahs are between us and use your railgun on the closest to your right after I fire.”

“Acknowledged.” The other GOG managed to work a good deal of worry and concern into the single word.

Nisti knew by letting the BDRMs advance that far, they were taking a chance. If any of the three scout cars made it past, they’d see the GOG camp, and even a few seconds of video would mean the element of surprise was gone. If one got into the camp, its heavy machine gun would tear the unsuited Peshmerga apart, and it would be a disaster if even one scout car survived long enough to notify the Persians that there was a force this far forward on their flank.

The GOGs waited, unmoving. They were all kneeling in full sight, trusting their camo. Still, Nisti was worried that any movement would give away her position. The Peshmerga tried to slow her breathing and waited as the Iranians approached.

The sound of engines straining to move the heavy vehicles grew louder, and Nisti thought she even heard music through an open hatch. The young Peshmerga thought she shouldn’t still be aware of the soreness under her arms, but perversely, it began to itch, and she couldn’t even shift. Any movement would be multiplied by her GOG. Every second seemed to pass slowly.

Finally, her overlay showed the three BDRMs were almost directly between her and the dot that represented Akam. Back in training, they’d discovered the counteraction of firing the mini railgun was enough to knock over an unbraced suit. Nisti dug the toes of her bent leg into the stony soil.

The GOG locked automatically as the railgun went off, freezing the sergeant for several seconds. They’d been trained to use a reverse slope or some other cover when firing the powerful weapon, but there’d been no opportunity for her to move. The heavy metal rod tore into the lead BDRM, smashing through thin armor, and tearing into its engine. Molten steel from around the penetration ignited oil and grease, so within a second, the scout car was burning.

One Iranian tried to escape from the turret and took a round to the forehead. He dropped back in, and no one else appeared. Her ears rang too loudly to hear if there were any screams as the fire spread. The rear BDRM met a similar fate, Akam’s round passing through the side in the middle and filling the interior with drops of steel and shrapnel. The crew’s screams inside were short and also went unheard.

The middle scout car reacted quickly, throwing stones as it turned in place, spraying its 14.5mm heavy gun wildly toward Akam. The line of tracers and heavy rounds walked over the head of her squad mate. The GOGs needed at least a minute for their railguns to recharge, and Nisti could only rush toward the vehicle as it turned. She hoped to at least distract its commander enough that he couldn’t radio in the contact. Distantly, she heard herself screaming as she charged.

Akam was rushing toward the remaining scout car when a half dozen rounds tore across his GOG. The jagged holes through the chest of his suit were clearly visible. He was thrown back and didn’t move. Nisti jumped the last ten meters to land on top of the turret of the Iranian scout car just as he hit the ground. In reaction, she reached down, literally tore the machine gun’s barrel from its mounts, and flung it away. That left a two-inch hole in the turret, into which she pumped one of her AP grenades. The grenade was designed to scatter enough jagged shards to kill everyone within a five-meter radius. The effect on the three men inside the scout car was devastating.

The exchange had taken less than a minute. She could see the blips where the rest of her squad were moving toward her and ordered them to return to their positions. There could be other patrols nearby, and they’d easily see the smoke from the burning BDRM. The air stank of weapons fire and death, and secondary explosions had begun inside the scout vehicle she’d first hit.

By the time she’d rushed over and opened Akam’s GOG, Timo and a dozen of his personal guard hurried up, some still sealing their GOGs as they ran. They quickly formed a perimeter and used dirt to put out the burning BDRM. As they opened his GOG it became apparent two of the heavy rounds had penetrated Akam’s chest. Nisti could confirm that the reading of the telltale on her command circuit was accurate. Akam was dead.

Nisti knew he had a wife and two children, and she vowed to record a message to them telling of his courage and send it before they fought again in case she, too, was lost.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, meeting in the camp, Timo, Nisti, Jaziri, and the company commanders were somber. It didn’t appear as if the mullahs’ patrol had gotten a signal out, but that remained a concern. There was also the painful fact that the GOGs had lost their first soldier. Timo realized that, in a way, this was good. It was too easy to feel invulnerable in a GOG suit. Akam’s death might prevent many more that would have occurred if their first combat had been a general encounter. The other Peshmerga would be a bit more cautious now. He felt bad at the realization, even as he thought it. The regiment had lost one of their own.

“We have to move,” the young general announced into a long silence. The Iranian armor, led by the Revolutionary Guard armor, had begun to move an hour earlier. “They’ll be in contact with our defensive line by late tomorrow morning.”

The Peshmerga officers nodded, lost in thought. Timo glanced at where Akam had been carried to the center of camp, still partially in his suit. The suit had been stripped of ammunition and usable parts, but much, including the skeleton and padding, remained with the body.

“I’ll say a few words, and then we can bury him. Rafiq, you need to destroy the GOG. We can’t leave anything that’ll help the mullahs understand what they’re facing. Surprise and fear are still our best allies.”

“General,” the sergeant major of the regiment responded, “we all swore to live and die in our suits. Akam should remain in the suit, meeting Allah in it.”

“Are you sure?” Timo wondered. “That seems extreme. We’ll have to blow it to small pieces.”

“It’s been discussed,” Nisti broke in, her voice rough. “We all know the suits can’t fall into enemy hands. Some of us will die in battle, and it would be dishonorable to expect others to recover our suit, just to destroy it. Everyone agreed before we left that it was the duty of others to destroy both the suit and the body of anyone who falls and can’t do so for themselves.”

The squad commander paused, looking around with concern visible.

“Every man in this regiment has sworn that if they’re too badly wounded, they’ll detonate their GOG. If they’re unable to do so themselves, it’s important to our honor and our oath that we do what they can’t.”

Again she paused, looking at each officer, and then Timo.

“We’ve all agreed, not just to your order, but that such a fate is an honor. Akam will be the first.”

Moved, and wondering at what he’d begun, Timo nodded in silent agreement, and a new—if gruesome—tradition was born.

The entire regiment formed up around the deep hole dug into the stony Kurdish soil. At sunset, Akam, still in what remained of his GOG, was lowered into it in total silence. The traditional invocation was called over the general circuit. The ceremony was brief and ended loudly. The long, departing column of GOG-suited Peshmerga angled and bent so the soldiers could pass by the still smoking, empty crater where Akam had been. Each GOG stopped and threw in a handful of dirt. The soft invocation of “Never again” was repeated hundreds of times, sounding almost like a prayer.

* * *

Iran

Banks of the Tigris River

Near the Border with the Kurdish Republic

Five-star General Reza Davoud—commander of the Revolutionary Guard Corps, and architect of the current attack on the Kurdish Republic—got out of his stretch Mercedes limousine less than a mile short of the forward headquarters. He climbed into a standard APC, accompanied by four heavily armed bodyguards, who’d followed the Mercedes in a Lexus sedan.

Davoud had determined the APC would make a better impression on the international press and his staff. Appearances were important. This victory would make him the most popular officer in Iran, and likely all of the Arab world. It would solidify his claim to be the supreme commander of all the Persian forces. When the former lands of the Persian Empire were reconquered, and the long-promised destruction of Israel followed, he’d be remembered by history.

The headquarters was set up in what had been a two-story, state-run resort for mid-level bureaucrats. To the general’s disappointment, there’d been no luxury facilities this far north. It wasn’t up to his standards, but it was acceptable for the few days it would take to overwhelm the Kurds. Of that, he had little concern.

Virtually the entire Iraqi Army—over three hundred thousand men, with more than two hundred tanks, supported by almost three hundred large and small guns—was moving north under his command. Another thirty thousand infantry, after surprisingly high casualties, were debouching from the mountains that lined the Kurds’ eastern border. His main column’s most advanced units were already forty kilometers inside the lands claimed by the Kurds and had met no resistance.

Admittedly, after years of undeclared warfare, the border on both sides was a wasteland, good for little beyond raising goats, but at the current pace, he’d be leading a parade through their capital in three days. The general was happy that he could reasonably expect, between the Kurds’ fool of a president and outnumbering them five to one, they had decided to simply accept the inevitable. There was even a contingency prepared for if they met no resistance at all.

For a moment, General Davoud allowed himself to picture how joyfully the mullahs would react to the near-bloodless occupation of their hated neighbor, wondering if they’d have to create a new rank for him of marshal, like those of Napoleon, since no other further promotion was possible.

The dining room of the hotel had been converted into a command center. The large room had a white tile floor and a few flower-filled murals painted on pale yellow walls. Two rows of long tables were manned by young officers, each wearing a headset in front of a computer. They were maintaining constant contact with the commanders in the field. On the far wall, three large monitors displayed maps in different scales of the potential battlefield. On the wall was an eighty-inch video screen filled with a map of the war zone. Lines of red squares marked the location of each tank company or infantry regiment. The units of his own guard corps were indicated by red scimitars rather than squares.

The highways and smoothest terrain followed the long valley of the Tigris River, and most of his infantry formed a thick, snake-like column that spread about five kilometers east from the river. At the front were both of the army’s armored regiments. His guard armor and mechanized infantry formed a second, more even line paralleling and a few kilometers to the east of the main column. That protected their flank and would preserve his most loyal forces from the carnage of an initial encounter.

He planned for them to break east later, and curl around, then behind any opposition. Force at the point of contact and flexibility after. Davoud proudly approved to himself the textbook perfect formation. A jagged, thin, blue line ran across the top of the larger monitors, indicating the suspected position where the Kurds were preparing some sort of hasty defense line. It made no difference. There was nothing the weaker Peshmerga forces could do against their numbers. He was willing to lose two soldiers for each of theirs. When the battle ended, he’d still have half his army left, and the heretics would all be dead.

Yellow squares marked the position of the Iraqi Army across the Tigris. They were moving more slowly, lagging nearly twenty kilometers back, even though they, too, had met no real resistance. After studying the map for a moment, Davoud decided that was just as well. He issued an order to the Iranian officers leading the Iraqis. They were to halt and wait. No reason to share his victory with their disdainful neighbor’s forces. This would be solely a Persian victory. The Iraqis could serve later in the dirty job of occupation troops.

He’d spent months putting together the plan for this attack and was happy it was finally going forward. Every detail, from logistics to the mullahs assigned to every division commander, had been considered and prepared. So far, the initial effort had been a grand success. Based upon the high number of casualties his divisions had incurred, the Kurds must have moved half their army into the distant valleys. He’d already split their defenders while concentrating his own army across a narrow front.

Now they moved forward until the first units hit and, likely, broke through the thin line of defenders solidifying at the top of his map. Davoud was sure maximum force would be applied wherever the Peshmerga tried to stop them. That line could only be so long. Then he’d release the guard armor around their flank. That made it likely his own Revolutionary Guard Armor Division, under his son’s command, would emerge as the heroes of the war.

“Anything?” the general asked a major wearing a headset and monitoring communications with the most advanced armored regiment.

“Only a few of your guards’ scout cars not reporting in,” he was assured, taking a seat next to one of the map update technicians. “Just one patrol, not enough to indicate a significant enemy presence.” The young major paused, choosing his words carefully. “You know some of those older Russian radios weren’t in the best condition.” The reality was, maintenance wasn’t his army’s best quality, and equipment failures were all too common.

“Excellent,” Reza Davoud acknowledged. “Inform me immediately of any significant resistance.” The commander stood and went into the next room, where he could see a buffet had been prepared. It would be a quiet night, with the outnumbered Kurds cowering in their defenses, knowing there was nothing they could do. Likely overnight desertion would diminish their numbers even more. If his army was at the same disadvantage, men would be disappearing in droves, but there was no worry of that. Morale could only improve as they rolled over and around the enemy.

He’d eat, issue an inspiring message for the army and the press, then get some rest. It was hard to know more without aerial recon, but fear of whatever they had encountered over the Kurdish armor’s base still grounded much of his air force. That no longer mattered. Air power was only needed when the opposition had a chance. The army would halt for the night and advance, rested, in the morning. If the Peshmerga retained their nerve, the two armies would meet midmorning. He wanted to get a good night’s sleep so he’d look good for the cameras at the press conference he’d scheduled for noon.

The general wrote his message to the troops while finishing his dinner with two servings of honey-covered sweet breads and tea. The confident commander strived to not only encourage his soldiers, but also to lay to rest the rumors of demon warriors emanating from men in the divisions who’d finally pushed through the northern valleys.

Despite the heavy losses, they were finally advancing. A day late, but advancing. Davoud allowed himself a brief surge of anger. The three division commanders trying to ascribe those losses to anything but their own incompetence was insulting. As to demons, he knew an excuse by desperate failures when he heard it. The officers who’d thrown his schedule two days behind would pay for their incompetence later, after their failure contrasted even more greatly with his own success.

Still, the three divisions were battered badly enough that it would take them a few days to reform. He decided that didn’t matter, as their next job should only be to trap the survivors of the retreating Peshmerga main army after it was smashed by his forces.

Davoud forced himself to put aside his anger and reread his prose one last time.

Soldiers of Allah, at dawn, we will advance to our great and inevitable victory. Within a day, we will crush the heathen Kurds. We are a mighty force facing only the poorly prepared and outnumbered heretics. Move forward with courage and faith in our holy destiny, and we shall sweep them away. Obey, as do the malaikah, the angels, and no soldier or even demon can stand against you. Soldiers of Persia, tomorrow I lead you to glory.

General Davoud was pleased with his message. It contained the right note of optimism and would inspire his soldiers, who were, in his opinion, a superstitious lot. He supposed that was the price of using religion to keep the masses under control and making unquestioning faith a requirement to join the military. His fellow leaders, even those who could be called religious, often commented cynically on the foolish beliefs of the common soldiers. He ordered it printed immediately and read to every man in the army before breakfast.

The general went to bed, chuckling at the idea of demons defending the Kurds. If there were any supernatural beings—which there couldn’t be—the mullahs had promised Allah would send them to assist him.

* * *

Edge of Kurdish Republic

Timo lay in a small tent too short to stand up in. It was just sunset when an urgent squeal from his command headset woke the young officer from a treasured three hours of sleep. It took less than ten seconds for both the disappointment at being awakened early and the adrenaline from worrying why he was being called to bring him fully awake. He pulled on his GOG helmet and projected the caller onto the HUD.

“President Hassan has just left. He personally handed me an order,” General Sinki Gokalp said from his general staff office. “The president wants the entire army to lay down their weapons.” The older officer continued shaking his head slightly. “The president realized we’ve formed a defensive line but says it’ll be easily overwhelmed. Hassan feels our only hope is to surrender and accept the mercy of the Iranian mullahs.” The vehemence with which the older general spit out the words “Iranian mullahs” expressed his disdain for the order. “The president’s sent similar orders to all six divisional commanders. All but Rekani have already contacted me and await my response.”

There was a long pause while the older Peshmerga visibly gathered his thoughts.

“Timo, we all know you’re doing something important there, wherever under Allah ‘there’ is. No one seems to know where you are, or is telling me, anyhow.”

“I’m in the field,” the young general responded.

“Enough said,” Gokalp answered, smiling. “You’ve been doing a lot of ‘not saying’ lately that I’ve chosen to ignore. After you work this miracle, I’d love an after-action report.”

“You’ll get one, if I live to write it,” Timo agreed, smiling.

“There is another problem.” Gokalp sounded even more worried than before. “Rekani has insisted he needs to speak to you immediately. In person, at his office.”

“At his office in Raqqa?” Timo stuttered. If he was still there, where was his division of fifteen thousand badly needed Peshmerga?

“Yes,” the other general agreed, sounding equally concerned. “You need find out where his division is and where it is needed the most.”

“In the meantime,” Timo said, hesitant to overtly disobey President Hassan, “could we suggest that each officer request clarification of what must be a garbled order? With the radio blackout you’re about to order, they may want to send the request via hard copy, transported by vehicles. Preferably slow vehicles, driven by men who aren’t familiar with the routes.”

Gokalp actually chuckled. “Clarification is certainly needed.” Then his mood sobered. “Three of the four divisions are in place. Any other orders?” Timo said no, not even noticing he’d been asked for orders by a general senior to him.

As the general’s projection faded, Timo rose and resisted the urge to smash something, anything. It wasn’t enough that they were fighting for their lives and nation. How could he deal with the knowledge that their highest elected leader was a traitor, or at least a coward? It never occurred to the young general that it wasn’t his responsibility to solve all his nation’s problems alone.

“Jaziri,” he broadcast, “I need you to guide the regiment tonight. Tell Colonel Kardo where we decided on the final camp and lead him to it. I’ll join you there.”

Using the burst radio in his helmet, Timo then ordered a small, fast helicopter to come pick him up. It was a risk, but one he had to take. He was already suiting up and would run several kilometers north to make sure if the chopper was spotted, it didn’t give away their presence.

Forcing his shoulders to relax as he ran, the young officer again debated if he was being too self-indulgent, wanting to command his GOGs in their first battle. He knew all the rules of leadership said he should be sitting in a bunker, preferably miles behind the defensive line. A modern general should stay back and allow his competent officers to lead the assault. He simply wasn’t willing to send his GOGs out in what were, realistically, experimental combat suits against a massive enemy force in a battle that would determine whether his beloved nation survived without sharing that danger. Accepting his own weakness, Timo breathed deeply twice, promised himself to return, stood straight, and began running.

Moving quickly, and almost invisibly, Timo looked at the darkening sky and heard the chirps of insects beginning their night songs. The Iranian invaders sat a hundred kilometers west and south of their position. Their forward elements had already begun probing the Kurd’s defenses. In the north, their infantry was finally forming up for a push against the under-armed militia. The next few nights, there’d be no moon until almost sunrise. It’d be fully dark in an hour, and in tomorrow’s moonless darkness, his few hundred GOGs had to produce a military miracle.

The thoughts were almost too overwhelming to consider. Instead, as the miles passed, Timo wondered why Rekani hadn’t deployed. His forces would take at least a full day to cross even their small country. They were needed, or the thousands of Iraqi soldiers invading the Republic would do so unopposed.

* * *

Entering Iran

The old farm truck bounced higher than normal over yet another rut, worn seats bruising both disguised Peshmerga. The truck had been left behind by the US Army decades prior, and whatever springs it once had had succumbed long ago to heavy loads and unpaved roads. The driver, an Iraqi Kurd, seemed to be oblivious to their discomfort. He smiled and continued to sing along with the tinny sounds of the radio dangling from where the rearview mirror had once been. The air smelled of oil, carbon monoxide, and dust.

Lieutenant Ragir Rozak glanced behind, but all he could see was dozens of stained boxes filled with olives. Under them was a shallow compartment, and in it lay their GOGs. He wasn’t worried that a suit designed to survive rifle fire would be damaged, but he did wonder how he could fight in the suit with the HUD system jarred beyond use.

“They better be tough,” the lieutenant commented sourly as he shifted to a different and equally uncomfortable position. The tall, brown-haired Peshmerga barely fit in the seat.

“I’m more concerned about this last border check,” Sergeant Kevi Dorsky observed worriedly, then she winced as the truck lurched again. Both reached behind them and loosened the pistols wedged into the seat backs. Also tall, but thinner, she’d have been less uncomfortable if she hadn’t been in the center.

“The battalion’s off to fight a real battle, and we’re two people invading Iran in a relic.”

“The general himself ordered this mission,” Kevi reminded him, then quoting Timo Sheen, “‘two volunteers for a risky mission into Iran. No support, no reinforcements, guaranteed death if caught, but a mission that could win or lose this war.’”

“You jumped at the chance. We all volunteered.”

“Sure,” Ragir protested, “but I didn’t realize the lack of support we were warned about would be the seat of this damn truck. I’ve had a spring poking me since we left.”

The driver scowled, and Kevi was sure he hit the next several deep holes on purpose. She gave him her best fem fatale smile, then the ride got marginally smoother.

Their only protection against being discovered were the four bottles of olives and oil the farmer had purposely smashed in the back of the cargo area. That meant that anyone climbing into the truck to inspect the load would have to climb through a sticky mess and move soggy boxes. Their uniform would be ruined.

Two neatly dressed Iranian soldiers walked behind the truck, while a third pointed his AK-47 in their general direction. They heard annoyed obscenities as the gate dropped, the sound of a box shifting, and then it was slammed closed again. A few seconds later, the two walked past the passenger side of the farm truck and into their shack. One was smiling, and the second frowning guard followed, trying hard not to get olive oil on his uniform as he carried an oil-soaked box of olives extended in front of him.

Seeing the loot, the third guard followed them into the shack, and the three Kurds found themselves alone. The farmer smiled knowingly, and the lieutenant smiled back broadly as he put away the forged identity papers they hadn’t even looked at.

Five hours later, they arrived at a beet farm. The air was fresh, and acres of green surrounded them. No one was there. The former owner and his family, having been paid more than the entire farm was worth, were vacationing in Chabahar.

They unloaded the suits into a barn that was more of a large, doorless shed. That night, the two GOGs slipped past three patrols and half buried themselves three kilometers from the end of the runway of the Hamadan Air Base.

After sitting, unmoving, for two cold nights and a scorching hot day, hearing nothing but a confirmation of their successful insertion, both Peshmerga remembered the cool wind through the windows and lack of biting insects during their recent truck ride much more fondly.

* * * * *

Chapter 26: 30 March, Year 10

Raqqa

Kurdish Republic

Western Defense Headquarters

Bruised and exhausted, Timo took the opportunity to catch a few hours’ rest as they sped toward Raqqa. Because they were flying nap-of-the-earth—staying within fifty feet of the surface and conforming to hills and valleys—the ride was rough, but Timo fell asleep within seconds. Their flight path followed the main highways, and he left an order to be awoken when they flew over the columns of the 1st Mechanized Brigade and 4th Infantry Division as they moved toward their assigned positions. They were to stop the Iraqi column advancing west of the Tigris River. He was more than annoyed when, early that afternoon, the pilot announced they were over Raqqa as he shook the general awake.

“I gave you an order to wake me,” Timo began with all the ire a sore, tired man just waking up could muster.

“Sir, the roads were empty,” the flyer protested. “Nothing,”

“Clear?” He’d been warned that the division hadn’t moved, but he’d hoped it wasn’t true.

Timo still hoped the pilot had somehow missed the column until they got close enough to the Peshmerga base that he could see the armored cars and transports lined up, immobile, in three long rows on both sides of the base’s roads. As they got closer, Timo could see hundreds of men sprawled near sitting vehicles. What had happened? He just couldn’t understand why nearly a quarter of the Peshmerga sat idle. Had there been some terrible development while he slept? Had they lost the war in the last few hours?

Worried, the young leader put on the helmet of his GOG. The suit was hidden in a closed compartment. The war was still on. A quick briefing told him little had changed, which meant things were as bad as he’d expected. The only good news was preliminary reports indicated the Iraqi column had halted.

As they landed, General Rekani’s car pulled up, and a corporal held the door open. The armor commander got in without a comment, angry and worried.

Western Base had originally been built by the Americans and British using concrete and steel. It was full of imposing buildings and bunkers. As usual, the base was clean, almost meticulously groomed. Rekani had insisted on that, stating that it helped discipline. Not a single piece of litter was visible as they drove. The only deviation from normal was that the base was barely populated since most of the personnel seemed to be resting near their trucks and armored carriers. They passed two punishment squads whose soldiers were carrying brooms and buckets, working near the base headquarters. After the chaos and carnage, it seemed surreally peaceful.

Timo got out at the admin building. Only a few of the desks were occupied, but he could see several officers converging on the building behind him. A few entered as he walked toward Rekani’s office. The young officer refused to turn and see their intent. As he got closer, Timo saw the general standing by his open door, smiling. He suppressed his anger, tempered by doubt. What had happened?

“Come in,” General Rekani insisted, standing aside and gesturing him through.

The moment he was in the room, Timo realized something was wrong. Standing against the wall next to the door was Captain Doski, the head of President Hassan’s security team, and two other security sergeants, all with their sidearms drawn and pointed in his direction. The GOG officer froze a few steps in. Rekani’s smile changed into a smirk as he closed the door and strode to his desk, sat, and pulled an old-fashioned .45 auto from a drawer. Placing the gun on his desk, Rekani looked up defiantly at Timo.

“First of all, as of yesterday, President Hassan personally appointed me the new head of the army. You’ve been criminally insubordinate. I expect you to obey an order from your chief of staff and not resist arrest,” Rekani began. He was clearly proud of his new title.

Timo could almost feel the security men’s guns pointing at his back.

“There’s no way we can defeat Iran,” the other general continued. “There are five of them for every one of us, and five tanks for each of yours. The only way is to compromise. President Hassan wisely saw this day coming, and he prepared for it. The supreme mullah will accept our surrender, and we’ll become an autonomous part of the Caliphate. Hassan will remain president, and peace will prevail. The president has assured me of this.”

Rekani shrugged widely as he continued, then lowered his hand to the .45 auto on his desk.

“The problem is, your militia troops are doing too well. Sure, they’ll lose eventually—they have to—but that success is annoying our future allies. If the Iranian losses are too great, the deal will be off.”

There was a pause, but Timo could think of nothing to say. It was worse than he’d ever suspected. Worse yet, he’d been so naïve that he’d come alone, and he felt helpless. There seemed little likelihood he’d walk out of this room alive.

“Nothing to say?” Rekani taunted. “You always had an opinion everyone thought was brilliant. Okay, I’ll give you one chance. If you order all the troops under your command to lay down their arms, you’ll live. You’ll only be obeying your lawful superior—” his smile returned “—me.”

This time, anger prevented Timo from responding. It was all he could do not to rush across the last steps and dive over Rekani’s desk, hoping to strangle the traitor. He clenched and opened his fists several times. He knew he’d die in the effort, but he still considered it.

“I thought not.” Rekani sounded pleased. “Fortunately, I have orders to cover your disobedience.”

With that, General Rekani reached for the weapon on the desk, and Timo tensed for a last, desperate lunge. All he could feel was a wave of anger and frustration. His people needed him to defend them, and this man would stop him. His family would go unavenged. There was no fear of death, only despair that he’d be unable to protect his people.

The shot was loud, and—still poised and about to try a desperate lunge—Timo froze. It took the young general a moment to realize he was still alive, and another to accept that the Western commander was on the floor near his desk, with a hole in his forehead, and the back of his skull missing. He turned cautiously toward the three soldiers behind him.

Captain Doski’s pistol still trailed a wisp of smoke. The two other men in his detail stood, staring at their leader. The young officer met Timo’s eye, and his voice quavered at first.

“General, I took the same oath you did. We promised before Allah and our ancestors to defend the Republic. I just did.” Then Doski holstered his sidearm and signaled his men to do the same before he said more. “The Peshmerga here are ready to move and wondering at the delay. You have only to give the order, and I recommend you do so soon.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Timo finally said. His hands shook until he took a deep breath.

“Colonel Sahan outside is waiting for movement orders,” Doski added, and then was suddenly business-like. “You men, clean up this mess. Realizing his own failure, General Rekani chose a warrior’s death over living in disgrace. Make sure he’s buried with honors, tomorrow.” Then he turned to Timo and added, “General, as a security expert, I must say, yours is sadly lacking. I’d take it as an honor if I could assist. We can’t afford to lose you.”

Timo accepted, walked out of the room, and gave orders as the now dead Western commander’s staff hurriedly gathered around him. Doski followed. No one questioned the young general’s authority, and within the hour, the entire Western Force was on the move. Some were surprised at where they’d been ordered to go, but all moved quickly to obey. Soon after that, Timo stumbled into his helicopter, with Doski following closely, and again the young general slept as it rushed him back toward his waiting GOGs. Doski sat behind him, awake and vigilant for the entire flight.

* * * * *

Chapter 27: 31 March, Year 10

Eastern Kurdish Republic

From what he could see, the Iranians had brought up more infantry and three more BDRMs. The bugles and revving engines warned the militia commander of yet another attack. The colonel wasn’t even sure, in the day they’d been in this, their final position, how many assaults they’d already beaten off. The ground in front of the village strongpoint was carpeted by dead and wounded.

Colonel Hernin ibn Karim had never felt so old. He’d spent his life building for the future, his village’s future, and the Kurdish Republic’s. Never before had he doubted that there’d be a future for both—but now he did. When they fell, there was nothing between the enemy and the capital.

The old Peshmerga readied his weapon and looked to right. Beng Werzan, his second in command, and once the village grocer, waited with his rifle ready. They both crouched low behind a pile of rubble and bricks that, twenty hours before, had been someone’s rather pleasant home. Part of the shingled roof remained overhead, giving an illusion of protection from the artillery and mortar rounds that fell almost constantly. A howitzer shell landed nearby with a chest pounding explosion, showering dust and concrete shards over them both.

“Close,” Beng observed, obviously trying to sound calm.

“That call,” Hernin admitted, “was from the short 1st Division officer who helped with our training.” He tried not to sound too discouraged.

“They’re coming?” The grocer tried not to sound too hopeful.

The colonel’s voice was flat. “No, every man’s in a defense line. They’re already under attack.”

Beng shook his head.

“There are so many Iranians, they had to extend the line kilometers to the east.” The village elder looked concerned as he spoke. “They’re spread too thin.”

Beng shrugged and aimed his rifle more carefully. He could see another attack forming up.

An Iranian machine gun on one of the advancing AFVs opened up with a ripping sound, and the heavy rounds smashed into the wall behind the two militia officers. The week before, they would’ve dived for cover; now, they just crouched lower and waited for the infantry to move into range.

“How many left?” Karim asked. Werzan had also been on the radio after the last attack. They wouldn’t be using it again. The hut it had been in was now a smoking crater.

“Ninety-three here!” the militia lieutenant yelled above the sound of yet more machine gun rounds. “About the same at the others. Ammunition’s low in three and six, but both swear they’ll throw rocks rather than surrender.”

They were all that had survived, except a few dozen volunteers too badly wounded to fight who were being tended by some of the wives at the center of the village. Karim was worried that so few survivors wouldn’t have enough firepower to stop the next Iranian attack.

After they fell back from the passes, there’d been too few militia to form any sort of line. Instead, Karim had opted to quickly fortify nine villages on the route to the capital. They’d started with over two hundred men in each position. As he’d hoped, the mullahs’ commander had been too badly battered during their advance to be comfortable bypassing them and leaving his rear open to raiding.

The Iranian division had surrounded each position, and it began. When six hours of barrage failed to drive the militia out of their positions, assaults followed. That was yesterday morning, and the last few charges had grown increasingly fierce and more determined. He’d seen at least one officer firing into the backs of soldiers that hesitated. If their main attack had been stopped, the Iranian commander would be under intense pressure from Davoud or the mullahs.

When they got into range, the Iranian soldiers advanced, weaving and scuttling. Many dropped for a few seconds, protected by the bodies of their fallen comrades, before springing up and rushing behind the next one. Karim was somewhat pleased. In the first charges, they’d stood, running forward and firing from their hips. The Rawafidh scum had learned some respect.

Karim could only see one other strongpoint, a village a few miles to the south. His remaining son was there. It, too, was being shelled and likely assaulted. He knew that soon, each position’s ammunition would run out, and they’d be overrun one by one. It was all he could do not to punch a wall in frustration. Instead, he picked a target and fired. The recoil and flash of his weapon was familiar and satisfying.

That feeling faded when he heard the familiar, muffled thud of a bullet striking human flesh. Lieutenant Werzan lay, sprawled, blood on his side and leg. Karim knew he couldn’t stop firing to bind the younger Peshmerga’s wound. He was grateful when a woman appeared to pull the unconscious young man to a safer location. A few minutes later, the Iranians were dangerously close, and he had to concentrate on firing only at the closest. The woman returned, picked up Werzan’s rifle, and began firing. The colonel took a moment and turned to smile his gratitude.

Roza, his daughter-in-law, returned a strained smile. Her husband, his son, had died in the fighting four days earlier. He wanted to order her to safety, but there was none, and he knew she wouldn’t obey. Together, they kept up a deadly barrage, Iranian bullets constantly pinging nearby. When Karim opened the last box of ammunition, she turned and gently touched his cheek. Silently, they said goodbye—perhaps the last two members of his family.

Reloading, both were covered in blood and dust. The fire from those in the other building was slackening. His militiamen were either dead or running out of ammunition. The Iranians were close, a few seconds’ hard run away. The couple grasped hands for just a second as they exchanged worried looks. When they attacked again, there was no way those remaining could stop them.

Suddenly, every soldier in front of them went to ground and halted. Peeking over the rubble, the militia colonel could see the three scout cars, which had been giving cover fire from behind the assaulting infantry, had ceased firing. Unexpectedly, all three spun in place and hurried away. Whistles urgently ordered the Iranian soldiers to pull back. Some had been as close as a dozen yards.

Then Karim’s ringing ears registered a welcome sound. Mortar rounds and small-caliber shells were landing among the Iranians. The source became apparent when a dozen Bradley armored cars supported by three tracked artillery slammed into the retreating enemy infantry. Behind the dust kicked up by the Bradleys, he could see hundreds of infantry pouring out of trucks. It took the militia colonel three hard looks to recognize the symbols on the side of the Bradleys. The Western Force had arrived, just in time to save the Eastern Frontier. If he hadn’t been so totally exhausted, Karim would have cheered. Instead, he just clutched Roza close and cried.

* * *

Southern Frontier

Kurdish Republic

Timo arrived at the GOG’s new hidden camp as the sky darkened. Doski hovered and stood out, as he had no suit. The general paused only to drink some water and send a coded message to Roger Tang before ordering the GOG regiment to assemble in full gear. Putting his own GOG suit with the special command channels on, Timo realized it stank. He’d spent days in it, and after being out of the power suit, the odor was more apparent. He’d have to ask Tang for some sort of disinfectant they could spray in their suits, or he’d eventually lose half his force to fungus and infections.

It’s strange, the young general mused for a few seconds, how nothing changes. Even in modern warfare, so many things beyond the enemy can still decimate an army. While they gathered, he used his helmet comms to contact the armored regiment’s HQ. The corporal who manned the radio sounded nervous and looked exhausted, and it was soon apparent why. His superior didn’t look much better.

“I hope you have good news for me,” Intel Captain Duhoki began, “because the best I can give you is that we haven’t lost yet.” There was a pause. “But I can’t guarantee that for much longer.”

“Karim?” the general spoke the name as a question.

“His militia held against ten times their number,” Duhoki assured him. “It cost them dearly, though.”

“How bad?”

“Losses in the village units were over 50 percent. Some of the villages will never survive. The Bianza militia’s losses were closer to 70 percent, dead and wounded. They were close to being overrun when the Western Force arrived.”

“The colonel?”

“Alive, but he lost his last son.”

“Kefen!” Timo spat out with feeling, bitterly aware that they were sacrificing the generation of Kurds he’d hoped to preserve the Republic for.

“The defense line was hit this afternoon. There’s pressure on the entire front, and one serious penetration that was counterattacked by Azi’s tanks. I know for some reason, you wanted to keep them intact, but they saved the whole line. One MBT lost.”

A minute of helmet footage ran on the GOG commander’s head’s up display showing brave fighters falling back slowly from overwhelming numbers backed by light tanks.

When it ended, Timo kept his voice emotionless and merely replied, “Continue.”

“Once their armor comes up in strength,” the Intel officer added, “and with our man in Tehran telling me Davoud is already bragging about a war-winning flanking move, I doubt our main position can hold past noon, and that’s only if you give permission to commit all the armor reserves.”

“They have to hold, and hold the armored reserves back.”

“Final concern,” the Intel officer continued. “General Gokalp says the president is furious that we’re defending the Republic. He’s afraid President Hassan will order us publicly to stand down.”

The young commander hesitated. He knew he was disobeying the civilian authority, but Hassan was at best a fool, and possibly worse. He had a higher responsibility, but if he disobeyed an order publicly and told everyone else to do so as well, it would change everything. He took a deep breath, then responded. There’d be no republic or democracy if the Peshmerga surrendered. Surrender would also mean the end of the Kurdish people, as well. He had no choice.

“All orders stand,” Timo insisted, more vehemently than he’d planned. The bulk of their AFVs had to be fresh and ready if there was any hope for a decisive victory. Then the young officer added more calmly, “Thank you, Captain.”

* * *

After a quick meal, every GOG suited and formed up in the now traditional arc. As he stood before his GOGs, the young general was so concerned about the battle raging to their west that he barely noticed how visibly relieved Colonel Kardo and his officers were at his return. One GOG squad had just swept over or buried all evidence of their camp. The suited Peshmerga squadrons stood facing their commander, which wasn’t really necessary, as each GOG actually watched as Timo’s face was projected onto their HUDs.

“Fear will be our biggest asset,” the young commander explained. “If they know how few of us there are, we’ll be crushed. If they learn we can die, they’ll lose their fear. And some of us will die.” Timo paused, and more than a few GOGs glanced toward those on either side, comrades they’d trained with and often fought with. “Then the Republic is lost. Your goal is to slow their advance and drive the enemy until it’s tightly packed against the Tigris. That takes advantage of their attack plan.”

A map showing the current location of the Iranian force, courtesy of a few well-placed CIA satellites and cell phone reports from many sheepherders, replaced Timo’s face. The size of the attacking force was daunting, and there were more than a few indrawn breaths when it appeared.

“As you see, the bulk of the Iranians are advancing almost shoulder to shoulder within a few kilometers of the Tigris, using the river for protection. The Republican Guard Armor is spread in a line on the other flank. It cost the last of our fighter bombers dearly, but all the bridges strong enough for armor to cross the Tigris are down for two hundred kilometers. That means they can be trapped against the river. But there are, as you see, a great number of enemies. That angled line jutting out on their right flank represents elements of the Republican Guard, including most of the guard armor.”

There was a murmur over the open circuit that resembled a growl. No one was forgetting the Guard’s part in the past atrocities, including their commander’s own loss. Timo had to push the image of the broken, bleeding body of his son away to be able to keep talking.

“Their Guard Armored Brigade is spread along that twenty-kilo angle. Right now, it protects their flank, but we know tomorrow they plan a massive move around our defense line’s eastern flank.”

Timo paused, letting his veterans realize the import of that flank move. The map was replaced by a video taken of the slaughter at Mahabad. Broken bodies of women and children filled their screen. After several seconds, Timo Sheen continued.

“The Peshmerga have no more reserves, no way to stop the mullahs’ murderers from moving behind them. Our brothers and sisters stand, waiting. It’s your duty to ensure they won’t be flanked. We’re the Republic’s last hope. We stop that attack at any cost. Only we few can ensure those who’d destroy us as a nation are stopped. Only you can stop those butchers from slaughtering our wives and children. There’s no one else.

“And we will.

“Tonight we attack.”

That got an approving growl even more fierce and guttural than the earlier one. He waited for quiet, then changed their displays back to the strategic map.

“The enemy speaks of you as Djinn, demons.” Timo’s voice held a fierceness. “Let them learn to fear demons in the dark of night. The Guard armor is split into small packets. It seems the Russians are keeping them well informed regarding the location of our regular armor. That’s made them overconfident. Tonight they’re expecting to do no more than frighten off a few patrols and intimidate goat herders. Hunt them, hurt them, drive them before you.” Three hundred HUDs then switched from his face to a tighter view of the Iranians’ flank. Small red stars marked a line of the Guard’s armor encampments. One star grew brighter and larger in each GOG’s HUD, with two squad numbers next to it.

“They’re even now resting for the night in these locations. Two squads will be assigned to each of the marked camps.”

Timo paused to allow everyone to study the map, then continued, “They’ll be supported by infantry. Ten soldiers, maybe twenty, will face each one of you, but they’re men who already have fear in their hearts. Your goal is to destroy so many armored vehicles that you force the rest to flee and cower by the river. We don’t need to kill them all, just force them back into their own advancing column.”

Timo’s voice was filled with emotion as he finished, “They’re invaders, oppressors, who’d destroy our land and enslave your families. We have no way to guard prisoners. Take none. Show no mercy. Move to positions near each target. On my signal, we’ll hit them all at the same time. Hit them hard, pull back, then smash into the invaders again, and again. Tang’s dropped ammunition refills and a few batteries not far east of your starting points.”

Green dots appeared on their maps.

“Watch your battery levels. Allah allowing, tonight ends in victory. Teach them fear. Drive them back. Don’t stop while one GOG remains or the signal’s given to withdraw.”

Timo hesitated, hating what he was about to say, but knowing it was necessary. His tone grew solemn.

“I’d like to be able to tell you what I’ve said before other battles. To all come back alive. If every one of us—including me—dies, but the mullahs are pushed against the river, and then thrown back, it’ll be worth the cost.”

Silence followed, though each GOG already knew the hard truth. Then a single voice, possibly Jaziri, came softly over the general channel.

“Never again.”

The phrase was repeated over and over, louder each time, overwhelming the channel until Timo heard it only as a challenging roar. That was followed by a sudden silence, and upon a single order, the Kurdish Republic’s first and only GOG battalion turned and marched toward the enemy.

* * *

Just inside the Kurdish Republic

Iranian Army Davoud HQ, 10:00 pm

His staff was relieved to see General Davoud grinning while speaking on a cell phone with his son, Mazdak. They all knew the boy was to command a wide flanking attack scheduled to begin the next afternoon. No one dared to question if the call on a commercial cell phone was a security risk.

“All ready to go?” the Iranian commander asked his son.

The nervous staff—Davoud had once imprisoned an orderly who’d prepared his coffee incorrectly—relaxed when the grin turned into a smile. They sat quietly, listening to one side of the conversation.

“Excellent, nothing at all?”

After a pause, “They’re probably all on that cursed defense line. Be like a parade through Tehran. I expect they’ll give you your own parade after this victory.”

Mazdak must’ve made the right reply because his father laughed and hung up. The general had been in a great mood since he’d read the evening situation reports. The battle was going exactly as he’d planned. The enemy was doing exactly as expected. He was two days from the most glorious victory Iran had seen since his father had led the attack that recaptured Khorramshahr from Saddam. He’d announced twice to everyone listening that his name would enter the list of great generals along with his personal heroes, Rommel and Von Manstein. Then he had them all toast his success with tea.

After the call, the Iranian general studied the maps taped to the wall. Each unit’s location and status was shown and color coded. Those that had first encountered the Kurds’ defense line were showing yellow or red, but a thicker row of green markers, all moving north, lined the Tigris.

Davoud was pleased. The three infantry divisions sent to create a distraction on the Kurds’ eastern border had succeeded brilliantly—if slowly and at a high cost. They were marked red. Rather than reinforcing their main line, the Kurds must have withdrawn as much as a division to stop them. That was exactly as he’d hoped. Even though those three divisions were no longer capable of any offensive action, that hardly mattered.

The Kurdish line was already wavering. The Western Defense Force was nullified. The Kurds had already committed their reserves. He might well be able to smash through their thin line with just the massive infantry numbers he still had uncommitted… but there were other considerations.

The battle as well as won, family came next. With pressure on their main defense line increasing, the heretics would have nothing left to oppose his son’s flanking column. They’d roll up and encircle the entire Kurdish army. Three generations of glory. His family would be remembered forever, General Davoud felt assured, as national heroes. They’d probably reinstitute the rank of marshall just for him. The general looked so pleased, as he walked away from the maps, he noticed two of his aides preparing their own promotion paperwork. Davoud was delighted by their confidence.

“General Jahandar, tell the Iraqis to continue to hold in place. We won’t need them. No use sharing the glory,” he ordered as he moved up the wide, dark wood stairs that led to his suite. He was picturing the international press lionizing him at a post-war news conference. He should look his best. From the top, he yelled down, “Don’t wake me before six unless it’s the supreme ayatollah.”

* * *

Southern Defense Line

Kurdish Republic

11:50 pm

The 120mm artillery shell fell so close and with so much force that Major Firhad Sirvan bounced up off the dirt floor of the command bunker. Landing on the frag grenade on his belt bruised his hip, and for a few seconds the Peshmerga battalion commander was worried that he’d dislodged the pin. Then the next heavy round hit, fortunately a bit further away. He guessed the Iranians were walking the barrage back in hopes of hitting any supporting troops that might be less well dug in. It was hard to judge by sound, as what hearing he had left was overwhelmed by the ringing coming from his abused ear drums.

“Firhad—” He could see his executive officer speaking his name, but hardly heard it. Two days ago, he’d been the battalion’s exec, until the colonel died leading a counterattack that sealed a breach in the line. They’d reported her death, but communications were spotty, and Division Command had likely missed the report. It didn’t matter; they were Peshmerga and did what was needed. He’d been in command ever since. No one at HQ had commented when the daily status reports began coming from him. Concentrating, he was able to make out the words, “Outposts report they’re massing for another attack.”

The barrage had definitely moved past them.

“Order the men out,” he responded. “Pull the observers in.”

His exec nodded and hurried to one of the three radios set up nearby. Two still worked.

Once the order was given, Major Sirvan turned to Corporal Hawar Gorda, the radio operator who was also the battalion clerk. He’d been taking notes even during the barrage. Hawar nodded and held up the notebook. Eleven names were neatly numbered. Eleven more good soldiers lost. The battalion had started this battle with just under eight hundred men and women. These losses put them at just over five hundred still combat ready, more or less. That afternoon, he’d been warned there were no more replacements or reinforcements.

Moving to his own position above the bunker, the major readied his rifle. They were too few for him not to join the fight from the beginning. No Peshmerga officer even considered staying below ground. If he fell, he had no doubt the battalion would fight on under whomever survived. That was their way.

They were in trenches that would’ve been familiar to a WWI doughboy in 1917. Bulldozers had gouged a ditch deeper than a man stood. Then they’d come in with trench shovels and torn small openings into the sides, each one just big enough for two men to dive into. The red and tan clay was hard and had to be scraped out in slivers rather than dug. They’d had only a day to prepare, and everyone was exhausted by nightfall. The next morning, they were awoken by the first Iranian artillery barrage. Sivan recalled that was three, maybe four days ago. There’d been little chance to sleep since.

His first warning was when one of the few remaining mines exploded, the anti-personnel mine painting a bright spot on the dark horizon. He judged it to be about four hundred meters out.

“Flares,” he ordered the light mortar crew crouching behind him in the trench. With two quick whumps that sounded feeble so soon after the big guns had deafened him, bright lights hovered over the battlefield. Other platoons followed until it was so bright to their front that he could make out the style of tan desert camo worn by the advancing infantry. Flares in the distance to both sides warned him that the entire front was under attack.

Scanning with binoculars, the major was relieved to see only infantry. No tanks this time, or armored cars. That was good, as they were running low on anti-armor missiles. But there appeared to be a lot of infantry. Earlier that afternoon, the battalion had bloodied the unit facing them pretty badly while repulsing their last attack. The Iranians must’ve moved up an entire new regiment, maybe two. For a brief, boyish moment, that seemed unfair. They’d beaten off and punished one regiment, and now they had to start all over with a fresh opponent.

As soon as the flares lit them up, the Iranians began rushing forward by platoon. Groups of thirty or forty soldiers would advance twenty or thirty meters, then fall to the ground and fire. Then another platoon repeated the process. As each platoon stood, the nearby Peshmerga concentrated their fire on it. Individual rounds blended into a constant roar. But ten or fifteen platoons might be advancing at any one time, and too few rifles and light machine guns remained to stop them that far out.

Firing his rifle on semi auto, Sirvan wished there was some brilliant strategy or tactic he could employ… but that wasn’t going to happen. What they had to do was hold. Every Peshmerga knew there was no other choice. This was the only defense line. There was no place behind them to retreat to, short of their own homes. The army’s position was kilometers long, with every meter under pressure. If any part of it collapsed, the war would be lost. Their only option was to punish the Iranians until they decided to stop. No finesse, no tactics, just slug it out. Outnumbered five to one, they were in a battle of attrition.

Rounds slapped into the clay or whizzed over their heads. Puffs of dust and clay shards danced on the ground in front of him as two thousand Iranians fired into the battalion’s position. To his left, the major heard the sound of metal penetrating flesh, followed by a low moan and a thud. In the trenches, most of their wounds were head hits; he held little hope that the Peshmerga survived. Everyone was too busy to check. No one could be spared to help the wounded until the fighting stopped; every soldier had to keep firing.

The air smelled of dust, powder, and hot brass. His ears rang, but Sirvan still heard the thudding bark as one of their few remaining heavy machine guns opened up now that the range had closed. An Iranian jet flashed overhead but didn’t attack. The fresh Iranian infantry had covered about half the remaining distance, and the ground behind them was covered with casualties. Iranian heavy mortars opened up, knowing his troops didn’t have the option of taking shelter. Most landed long—likely the gunners didn’t want to risk hitting their own infantry. One fell in the trench about forty meters to the major’s right, and Sirvan saw body parts and weapons in the air.

The attacking infantry was running faster and closing more quickly. Seeing he had several magazines at his feet, the Peshmerga commander switched to full auto. The weapon vibrated in his hands. Around him, others followed, until his whole line was a wall of automatic fire.

“No,” Sirvan muttered. Too many Iranians were getting too close. If they were determined enough, this was it. There was no way they could fight them off hand-to-hand, and there was no one to plug the hole if they were overrun. All the Iranians needed was one breakthrough.

Then he heard the whistles. More quickly than they’d advanced, the mass of soldiers retreated. The Peshmerga’s fire didn’t slack, but to Sirvan, it now sounded different, exultant and less desperate. He waited until the flares went out along the battlefront and the night was quiet except for the cries of the wounded, and then hurried back down to the command bunker.

“Report that we held, with casualties!” he snapped as he entered. Most of the HQ staff were in position, but he noticed Evin Biki, one of the radio operators, was missing. The major nodded a question at the empty spot where she normally sat, and a nearby tech shook his head. That she’d been just eighteen with worried brown eyes was all he could remember. That and hearing the bullet that hit her.

The bleakness of their situation was brought home by the long list of casualties Hawar extended to him. He focused on the number before the last name on the list. It was 43.

“Half to rest, the other half to standby. Three hours, wake them and rotate,” he announced, moving toward a corner of the bunker. “That includes me.”

Then Sirvan collapsed on a blanket spread over the hard clay floor. The major was too exhausted to even feel the stone pressing into his side.

* * *

Yale Club

New York City

Eastern Time Zone, US

Tang Industries had recently endowed Yale with an entire engineering building. So when industrialist Roger Tang had requested the use of their club room for a press conference the day before, it was made available. Schedules were shifted, and the staff stayed up late preparing the high-ceilinged, oak-and-gilt-walled room.

Tang was always good for a story and the occasional scandal. The simple statement that he was going to make a world-changing announcement guaranteed that the room was filled to capacity with every broadcast and cable network setup.

Grinning at a few familiar faces, Roger Tang walked across the stage to a single podium on the far side. He could’ve entered from the other side, but he understood the press liked to get their photo ops early. Behind him was a glowing screen that nearly filled the back of the large, low, temporary stage. His corporate logo, ten feet across, filled the ultra-high-density screen.

“Thank you for coming,” Tang began traditionally. “I’ve asked you all here to share with you the release of Tang Industries’ new weapons system, the most advanced weapons system ever developed.”

He paused to allow the journalists’ barked comments, and a few surprised exclamations, to subside.

On the screen, the blurry image of three small jets high in the air replaced the logo. Martial music, possibly Wagner, could be heard faintly.

“Tang Industries is happy—no, thrilled and excited to announce that a secret program, years in development, has been completed.” His voice rose with both volume and confidence as Tang continued. “Two months ago, we went into production of the AS95 Active Stealth Interceptor.”

On the screen, the three distant jets simply disappeared. The thick contrail behind them gradually dissipated.

“The AS95 Fighter Interceptor is the new state-of-the-art combat platform.”

The image shifted to the floor of a hangar. Laid out in neat rows were tons of munitions, from missiles to machine gun belts. Then the camera moved closer to a small, oddly shaped missile only a few feet long and inches thick. On its rear were three red, wavery fins.

“I can’t, for obvious security reasons, give you a better view of this revolutionary aircraft. I can say it’ll fly faster and destroy targets at a greater distance than anything else in the air.”

There was a mutter of disbelief. Tang paused to allow those listening to absorb his boast.

“We’re particularly proud of our new Flyswatter missiles. These standoff, fire-and-forget missiles use a newly developed AI-based guidance system that guarantees a nearly 100 percent kill rate.

“I can show you how the AS95 looks when viewed visually, and from the infrared to the ultraviolet, not to mention radar.” With that, Roger Tang gestured at the screen, absolutely bursting with pride.

An image taken at some altitude appeared. All that could be seen was the blue sky and a few puffy clouds. He waited several seconds as the press voiced questions and pointed out that it was empty sky.

“What part of Active Stealth did you not understand?” the industrialist responded, laughing. “Of course you can’t see anything… and neither can the enemy.”

Another pause to let the idea sink in. The room quieted, except for two women in the back on their cell phones, already calling in the story.

“While we’ve been producing the AS95 for months, none will be available for delivery to NATO nations until next year,” Tang continued.

His tone grew more solemn. “You’re all following the Kurdish Republic’s desperate battle for survival against overwhelming odds…” Tang paused and got a murmur of approval. Americans loved an underdog, though not enough to force the current administration to intervene.

Then he dropped the comment that made every front page in the world.

“Since the Kurdish Republic was generous enough to host the testing and development of the AS95, we’re happy to have equipped their air force with a significant number of these unique jets. They’re now operating out of hidden airstrips, and as of today, will ensure any opposing aircraft meets a swift and unexpected doom. I’ll be surprised if many Iranian aircraft make it into the air at all.”

The reply was a literal roar of questions, comments, and the occasional shocked obscenity. Roger Tang let it continue for almost a minute, smiling knowingly and looking relaxed.

“For obvious reasons, I can’t take any questions. If you wish to learn more, ask any Iranian or Iraqi pilot foolish enough to venture into the air.”

With that, Tang took a few steps toward the nearest exit, then turned as if just remembering something, and returned to the podium. The room quieted.

“But if you plan to do so,” he added, “I suggest you hire a medium. Because the only way you’ll be able to speak to anyone foolish enough to fly against the AS95 will be through a séance.

“Oh, and by the way, the bar is open. Drinks are on the AS95.”

The photo of the cloud-filled empty sky was at the head or first page of almost every website, blog, and printed paper in the world. The consternation in Tehran was matched only by the confusion on the air bases of the Kurdish Republic.

* * *

The new Iranian air marshal nervously reported confirmation of the invisible interceptor. Worse, he went on to add, word of the disaster and the Kurds’ super fighter had spread. Every air crewman had heard. He was no longer willing to order any Persian aircraft into Kurdish air space, primarily because he strongly suspected he’d be disobeyed should he do so. The supreme ayatollah was prepared this time and shot the general himself.

When the air marshal’s second in command delivered the same message, he was publicly executed on Bagdad television. Four hours and three more executions later—one by stoning—the Supreme Council still had no answer for a jet that was totally invisible and incredibly deadly. Fighter pilots forced into their cockpits at gunpoint simply ejected once they’d taken off.

Finally, the mullahs accepted that their air force wouldn’t remain part of the offensive. The alternative had become killing or imprisoning just about every pilot and officer in what remained of their air force. But the mullahs did take their revenge; the next morning, almost all air force ground personnel were ordered to immediately report for reassignment to the infantry.

* * * * *

Chapter 28: 1 April, Year 10

Twelve Kilometers East of the Tigris River

12:01 am

The night was quiet, and insects and frogs sounded from the deep shadows of a nearby small grove. The moon had set early, there were few clouds, and the stars shone brightly. Timo and Colonel Kardo stood side by side in their GOG suits. If you wanted to rest in your suit, you could lean, but the GOG suit hadn’t been designed to bend in a way that would allow its wearer to sit.

They studied a large map that seemed to float three feet beyond their faceplates. On it, they watched as green dots representing sixteen 2-squad GOG units moved into position. Their war would start soon. Fourteen were in place, and the other two were close. A seventeenth bright spot on the map showed their own position, a few kilometers further back from the thirty-kilometer-long line now formed by the rest of the GOGs. Beyond what appeared, in comparison, to be a few tiny sparks near a bonfire was a mass of yellow blobs representing the night camps of the advancing elements of Davoud’s army.

The sixteen men and women of Timo’s personal guard stood facing outward in a hundred-meter-wide circle around the two officers. Captain Doski sat on a nearby hill just beyond the helicopter that had brought them both to the battlefield, the only Peshmerga not in a GOG. Somehow, Timo’s self-appointed security chief had obtained a Barrett M82 sniper rifle and was adjusting the sights. From the hilltop, he could see the western horizon, bright with light from the camps of five thousand Iranian soldiers. Only he could feel the cool breeze, but that wasn’t why he shuddered.

Speaking with the commanders of each division had given him a painfully clear understanding of their situation. The main defense line was being battered, the militia was effectively gone, and less than half of the Iranian army had been committed.

* * *

Eight Kilometers East of the Tigris River

While waiting with her squads for the go order, Nisti Kahn continued her own mental debate. She was trying to decide which felt worse; the suit rubbing against already chafed joints and under her arms when they were moving, or the itching that started once they stood still. Right now, itching was winning, and she was anxious to start the attack. Sure, they were going up against massively superior numbers, and it was likely they wouldn’t survive the night, but she wouldn’t notice the discomfort once the fighting began.

She never knew why it was Colonel Kardo and not General Sheen who gave the order, but when it came, the GOG sergeant moved immediately. The yellow blips on her HUD indicated all fifteen GOGs were just behind her, spread out in a line fifty meters apart. A drone scout had lasted long enough to show this Guard Armor camp consisted of seven large, elaborate tents, complete with generators and LED lighting. The orderlies appeared to be unloading inflatable mattresses, and a late dinner was being served by uniformed attendants. She’d been to less fancy weddings.

Parked in two lines on the south side of the camp were about thirty Russian T90 tanks and four rusting Zis 4x2 supply trucks.

She’d been professionally affronted that there was only one Iranian picket post stationed outside a camp inside a hostile country. As they approached, Nisti was glad they were so overconfident. That made this much more likely to be a surprise. Then she worried about what was happening upriver that had made them so overconfident.

The two infantry privates standing guard duty were silhouetted against the brightly lit camp. She signaled for everyone to pause and moved forward alone. They were still in the dark, and it was imperative there was no warning. If the tankers were warned and got into their vehicles, the attack would fail horribly.

She approached slowly, her camo on full dark, taking six long minutes to travel the last forty meters. For a moment she hesitated, then remembering her training, scooped up two rocks. Just as she stepped forward, an explosion in the distance distracted the sentries. They turned, looking to the side. She threw both heavy rocks as hard as her suit would allow. The first smashed into the head of one soldier. The second picket turned as the first hit and was struck instead in the shoulder. She could hear the crack of bones breaking. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet. He screamed in pain, but the camp beyond was also distracted by what had now become a series of explosions to their north. Nisti rushed forward, and walked through rather than kicked the downed soldier. She had to shake what was left of him off her leg. It left a mess on her GOG, and she hoped it wouldn’t interfere with her camo program.

“Squad 1 personnel, line ’em up now and fire when the tanks go. Squad 2, with me. It’s tank smashing time.” The sergeant noticed the itching had stopped.

Less than a minute later, Nisti and the other seven members of her squad had moved up to fifty meters from the line of parked AFVs, still unseen. They approached at an angle so they could target the thinner side armor along the entire row.

“I’ll take the trucks with grenades. Stay away from them,” the Peshmerga sergeant ordered. “When they go up, everyone start firing.”

Then Nisti reached behind her back and launched a grenade at the closest supply truck. Almost instantly after her grenade exploded, hundreds of rounds of HE and AP on the truck began to cook off. The secondary explosion set off the other trucks, and that explosion almost knocked her off her feet. Only the auto lock on her GOG kept her standing.

Seconds later, seven mini railgun rods of depleted uranium punched into the side armor of seven M90s. Two hit soft spots on both sides and actually penetrated through the tanks, and, while slowed, still punched through the side armor of the tanks parked behind them. The other five rods stayed inside their targets and rattled around, tearing the vulnerable inside of the AFVs to shreds.

Nisti waited, covering her squad for the twenty seconds their GOGs needed to unlock from the firing position. One Iranian soldier stumbled into the site, and she put five rounds into his chest. Then as her squad locked position to launch a second railgun round, she threw grenades over the tanks and into the camp. Beyond the tanks, there was a constant rattle of GOG small arms and more grenades exploding. The sky was bright from the burning remains of the supply trucks, and two of the tanks whose onboard ammunition had ignited.

The seven got off their third, and last, railgun rounds. By then, the surviving Guard infantry escorting the tanks had recovered enough to fire at the barely visible and too-tall, dark shadows that were picking them off with frightening accuracy. A few tankers were also trying to mount their vehicles. She estimated that they’d disabled at least eighteen tanks.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nisti growled. “Everyone, back to rearm.” She shot a tanker just as he put a leg into his M90 as she withdrew.

Both GOG squads instantly turned and withdrew at thirty kilometers an hour. No one from the shattered Guard Armor camp attempted pursuit.

* * *

Aza Gazi was glad it was hard to see into his GOG. He didn’t want the other Peshmerga in his squad to know how nervous he was. They were all veterans, and this would be his first combat. They’d all told tales of their first combats. The young GOG wasn’t sure which he feared the most, freezing under fire, or messing himself in his suit.

The sixteen GOGs were moving in an arc toward the Iranian Guard camp. Aza noticed that all the tanks were parked in a big circle with their guns facing outward. They’d also been warned that there were pickets stationed on four sides of the circle. The professionalism of the layout had the sergeant visibly worried. They were to go in fast, roll over the pickets, hit what targets they could, and get out faster.

At five hundred meters, the signal came to run. A GOG could run in a short burst at up to 45 kph, but that speed drained battery and prevented accurate fire. They’d been told to stay at 25 kph going in and be ready for surprises.

Aza enjoyed the feeling of power as the slick surface of the GOG suit slid along his legs. Jet black and weapons ready, they closed in. He topped a small mound, and for the first time, the enemy was visible. The red outline of three soldiers to his left solidified. Aza confirmed the outlines as targets and fired. GOGs on either side of him fired at almost the same instant. Inside the suit, he felt only a slight tap, then all three fell. One of the pickets must’ve had his finger on the trigger, causing him to fire a loud burst as his hand clenched in death. That alerted the Iranians ahead. The camp erupted with motion and bellowed orders.

At a hundred meters, they halted and set. There were nine Russian-built tanks facing them. One was right in front of the young GOG, but he remembered his training. Avoid the frontal armor; it was impregnable, even at close range. He shifted his targeting to the left and activated his railgun.

The suit locked tight. Aza hated that part. Bullets were flying overhead, and a mortar round burst behind him. Trapped and unable to react at all, the twenty seconds in the firing sequence seemed to last forever. Making it worse, a flare burst and illuminated the entire area. His GOG shifted from black to terrain camo, but that barely slowed the young soldier’s rapid breathing.

The railgun fired, and he saw the flash as the metal rod tore into the side of a massive AFV. A bullet hit his GOG but was absorbed by the reactive mesh. It seemed much longer than another twenty seconds before he could move again.

Aza’s first reaction was to suppress the enemy. As quickly as he could throw them, the young GOG launched grenades over the tanks. Others GOGs did the same, and the air over the inside of the circle of T90s was filled with explosions and deadly shrapnel. The young GOG kept throwing; he was later told he was also screaming, and the sergeant had had to mute his radio. Aza kept throwing until a tank on his right spun its turret rapidly and fired. It was an anti-personnel round, and the air was filled with heavy steel balls. One glanced past his right arm, leaving a groove in the metal that disabled his railgun. There was a pained huff on the squad channel, and he saw the GOG to his right go down. He turned to rush toward the fallen Peshmerga when that position erupted in a massive explosion. Aza never knew whether the soldier had triggered his own self-destruct, or the sergeant had done so remotely. He knew he’d never ask.

“Withdraw.” The order came both verbally and written red on his head’s up display. “Highest speed.” Another round fired from the tank added to the urgency of the order. Aza spun and ran as only a GOG could, taking short, fast steps so he wouldn’t throw himself into the air and become an easy target.

More mortar rounds filled the field, but they were moving too quickly for accurate targeting by the slow-firing weapons. Even so, the sheer volume made them effective. Far to his right, the young GOG heard another unmistakable explosion. A second GOG had self-destructed. By that night, that special death had a name: “cratering.” The term was used only by and to other GOGs with both pride and sadness.

Aza was still breathing hard when he reached the meeting point five kilometers away. A crate of ammunition was open, and a few of the other GOGs were replenishing grenades and rods.

Furtively, he counted, and saw there were only fourteen GOGs left. His radio was back on, and he wanted to ask who’d died, but no one else had. He suspected that would be frowned upon.

“Ammo up,” the sergeant ordered. “Given any luck, they’ll send out a patrol.” His voice was hard. “We got nine. I want the rest. They haven’t learned to fear us enough yet.” He named four of Aza’s squad, but not him, and ordered everyone else to rest in their GOGs. “We’ll hit them again once they settle down,” the noncom finished as he turned away. The five GOGs moved silently into the dark.

Half an hour later, Aza heard gunfire and a few explosions. Thankfully, none were the sound of another self-destruct. As he waited with the other GOGs, few spoke. The young Peshmerga only realized then that he’d been in a battle and hadn’t disgraced himself. He, too, was a veteran. Somehow, that meant much less now than he’d expected, and the young soldier spent his time concentrating on futile attempts to repair his railgun.

* * *

Like all combat commanders, Sergeant Major Rafiq Jaziri despised all “intelligence poofs” on principle. Today, he resented them a little more. The night camp four kilometers in front of the GOGs was supposed to hold a platoon of maybe twenty T90s. Instead, it held more than forty heavy tanks, and nearly a thousand supporting infantry. The old Peshmerga shook his head, realizing he had sixteen GOGs and was supposed to send them running in fear. The image of a small, furless dog threatening a bear came to the old soldier’s mind.

In a few minutes, the battalion’s other GOGs would be attacking, and the element of surprise lost. Whatever they did, it had to happen now.

“GOGs,” Jaziri began, “we need to be wasps.”

That got the sergeant major at least one “Huh?” but he continued.

“We’re not going to muscle that many out of their camp. We’re good, but not that good.” His GOGs were going to need all the confidence they could muster. “What happens if there’s a wasp inside your personnel carrier?” he explained. “I’ve seen it. Everyone tries to swat it, and half the time, they run off the road.”

Jaziri paused so they could absorb the image. He continued, “That tiny wasp, because it has a sting, threatens a dozen fully armed Peshmerga so greatly they all have to react to it.

“Why? Because it stings, and flees, and stings again. We’ll do the same.”

A few GOG helmets moved as the men inside began to understand and nodded.

“We can never stop; we must fly in and out like a mad wasp. Sting them and get away before they can see how few we are and swat us.”

There was a growl of approval.

The GOGs surged forward over the broken terrain, gliding only a few meters apart. Suits turned blacker than night, then were moving at near full speed. Coming to a picket, the GOGs didn’t even attempt to fire, using their arms to grab and squash two soldiers as they literally ran through them.

The camp was large, with tanks parked in groups of six, interspersed with tents, bonfires, and in one corner a two-story brick building. Even as the GOGs ran toward them, the sound of so many men and machines grew loud. When they were still a hundred and fifty meters away, Jaziri gave the order. The GOGs slowed and threw grenades. In the twenty seconds they remained in range, each GOG managed to launch eight to ten of the deadly weapons. Thirty-kph throws weren’t accurate, but the target was the whole camp. Over two hundred grenades tore into the Iranians, killing those within their three-meter lethal radius, and wounding those beyond.

As they sprinted away, another picket saw movement and opened fire with a light machine gun. Tracers and bullets sliced across the running GOGs, a painful expletive telling the sergeant major at least one of his GOGs had been hit. He switched on the HUD that showed each GOG’s position and was relieved to see all were keeping up. Mortar rounds and then HE rounds from the tanks blasted the already shredded terrain on every side of the big camp. Behind the Peshmerga, the mortar fire slackened as a dozen tanks roared out, seeking vengeance.

As the suited soldiers ran, a heavy artillery barrage landed behind them and to one side. It walked back toward the camp, a wall of thundering explosions. Normal, slower soldiers would’ve been trapped by it. The GOGs left the chaos behind. They ran so far and so fast that they had to swing back almost two kilometers to reach the location where they’d stashed their extra ammunition.

“Batteries at 72 percent,” the last GOG reported. One action, and already every GOG was down below 80 percent. Jaziri was worried. It was going to be a long night, and they had to keep moving. One GOG had been hit, and she had a real problem. By bad luck, a round had smashed one of her batteries, driving it into her leg. The Peshmerga could barely walk outside her suit, and the bone might be fractured. She was also down to 30 percent power on her remaining battery.

“Mircan,” he stated softly, “you need to stay here. We’ll be back for you. If we’re not, put on your GOG and walk north after sunrise.” He ignored her protests and demands to be allowed to fight. “It’s going to be a long war,” he predicted, “and we’re going to need you later.”

Somewhat mollified, the woman hobbled over to assist the still-suited GOGs with rearming.

Rafiq Jaziri had been impressed by the quick and violent response to their attack. Someone who knew what he was doing was in that camp. That made their job harder but might offer them a chance to do more damage. A good officer would need to know what he was facing. With no idea how any force capable of delivering many grenades had escaped, he’d send out a patrol to find out. They’d be reinforced with T90s, but that was what they wanted. He dispatched the three GOGs with the most power to watch the camp, and waited, chafing that he couldn’t do more.

Twice they heard firing in the distance, but all three GOGs reported no contact. It was almost half an hour later when one finally reported that he was watching perhaps a hundred men, three tanks, and an APC that had just turned back toward the camp. Based on the powerful attack they’d suffered, the patrol would be looking for a company-sized unit or larger. They had no reason to suspect sixteen Peshmerga—now fifteen—were inside their search perimeter.

It didn’t take long for Jaziri to move his GOGs into position. There were skirmishers out a few hundred meters to the column’s sides, but the line of GOGs simply remained still as they passed behind them. The armored personnel carrier led. Behind were three tanks, each covered in infantry grabbing a ride back now that they were in “safe” territory. A dozen more soldiers walked ahead or behind the T90s.

The APC sped up and was a few hundred meters ahead as the patrol approached. It would be out of their field of fire. That was a pity, but he ordered everyone to let it go. The tanks gradually pulled even with his position at the center of the GOG line.

“Baan, Jino, target the first T90. Kajaw and Mina, the second. Gulal and Arun, the third. One rod each, and withdraw once you’re free,” he ordered. “The rest, pick targets carefully. Bullets, not grenades at first. We’re running short.”

There was a pause as he waited for the second tank to come across from him. Then the sergeant major reached for his first grenade.

“Fire.”

The scene in front of Jaziri exploded. His own grenades landed among the dismounted soldiers in front of and behind the three AFVs. The screech as the railgun rods broke through the side armor of the Russian tanks tore through the air. The constant buzz of their small-arms fire was reflected in the screams of men falling off the tanks.

Within a minute, no one in front of the GOGs was alive. The sergeant major was just allowing himself to be satisfied with the ambush when he heard the 2-incher on the APC fire. Its courageous crew hadn’t run, but turned to speed toward their comrades, the small cannon spitting out a shell every few seconds. It must have been apparent which side the GOGs’ fire was coming from, and they fired along it. The explosions that followed were small shells hitting two of his GOGs. Three separate rods had slammed into the APC before he could give the order. No one tried to escape the burning vehicle.

Snapping on his HUD, Jaziri could see that Soran, a Peshmerga he’d known for years, and a new member of the squad, Basin, were dead. With reluctance, but quickly, he entered the code for every grenade on their suits to explode even as the batteries fried themselves.

Jaziri moved his GOGs onto the road and gave the most distasteful order of his life. Behead them, all of them, and fast. It took less than two minutes, as some of his GOGs simply tore heads off using sheer strength. Blood splattered and stained their suits. He thought he heard one GOG retch inside his suit, but everyone continued to obey.

The grisly task complete, he ordered a withdrawal. The sounds of the ambush would draw a massive response from the camp. That’s good, the cursing sergeant told himself. The more Iranians who see this, the better. The ambush scene would create terror among the notoriously superstitious Iranian soldiers, and terror was what Timo wanted. Then Jaziri muttered, mostly to justify the mutilations to himself, “Never again.”

* * *

Twelve Kilometers East of the Tigris River

General Sheen and Colonel Kardo barely moved as they watched the battle progress. More accurately, they watched the status of each squad of GOGs and got occasional reports from friendly satellites on the Iranian reaction. Timo dropped out to get updates and give orders on the army command channel. The general did his best to hide the concern from his tone of voice when he rejoined.

The strain showed on both faces. The news wasn’t good. A battalion status report showed in white and yellow letters, appearing to be hovering in the darkness a few feet ahead of them. Three hours into the night, out of 284 GOGs, they’d lost 111. Ninety-three of their Peshmerga were dead, and the suits destroyed. The other eighteen were wounded or their suits had failed. The damaged GOGs had been stripped, torn apart, and then buried. Those without suits were told to walk north and find a friendly unit.

There were no orders to give, nothing they could say to the GOG-clad Peshmerga that hadn’t already been said. Now they waited for an update on the latest positions of the Guard armor.

A radio call came through, but not the one they’d expected.

“General?” it began. “This is Captain Celal Duhoki.”

“Sheen here.”

“What the hell have you been doing?” the young intelligence officer demanded. “The volume of Iranian air traffic at all levels has tripled, and we’re monitoring hundreds of cell phone calls between Iranian soldiers.”

“Classified, Captain, but not a surprise,” Timo responded.

“They’re talking about demons that tear T90s apart with their bare hands and eat soldier’s heads,” the captain reported, and he chuckled. “I figured you must have something to do with this.”

“Anything else?” the GOG commander replied in a flat tone.

“Yeah, our man in Tehran thinks they just woke up the ayatollah.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Sheen was grinning now. “Keep me informed.”

Then he turned to Colonel Kardo and the smile faded as they both realized what came next. Some of the squads were at half strength, but there was no other choice. The battle was not yet won.

Opening a channel that could be heard by every GOG, Timo spoke quietly.

“I have no right to ask any of you for this. You’ve all fought valiantly. But if it’s to mean something, if we’re to save the Republic, I have to ask you to attack again, to go at the Iranians even harder than you have before. Be ready within the hour.” His voice trailed off.

He knew they’d obey. That was what made it so hard.

Straightening his shoulders, Timo took one step in his GOG, and then turned to Colonel Kardo.

“Stay here and continue in command,” he ordered. “I can’t sit idly by.”

Kardo tried to protest, but Timo pointed out that if the final push failed, he and the Republic would die at the mullahs’ hands.

“But you’re our commander,” the colonel sputtered, “and a general.”

“Correct,” Timo agreed, “and as your commander, I order you to take complete control of the operation.” He tried to grin, but he was too nervous to pull that off. “There’s no rule that says generals can’t fight.”

Kardo seemed to accept defeat, at least this time, and shrugged.

The young general scanned his map and added, “Jaziri is below half strength and facing an entire tank battalion. The threat of those tanks has to be removed. We’re the last reserve. In the next two hours, this war will be won or lost. Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll be there to join the sergeant. Then order everyone in.”

Timo was about to call for his escort to gather and realized they were already listening in on the battalion command channel. When they heard there’d be a final, desperate attack, every GOG had hurried toward their commander. Still without a word from their general, both sergeants brought their squads into line and waited for Timo to join them. He marked the location where Jaziri was, and they immediately broke into their sliding trot. A few seconds later, their general followed, still worried and a little humbled.

* * *

Eight Kilometers East of the Tigris River

The area around the Guard camp was rolling hills broken by the occasional clump of beech trees and pine. Even as he ran behind his GOGs, Timo was worried. So far, his plan—his desperate ploy to use their new technology to the limit—was working… almost. It was afternoon in New York, and by now, Roger had put on his show. So many parts; so many chances for the whole thing to fall apart. The general forced himself to deal with the tactical situation he was about to face. Running past a long ridge, he got an idea.

“Kardo, how many have managed to scare off their targets?” he asked.

“Six teams,” the colonel responded.

“How many GOGs between them?” Timo was painfully aware the number would be small.

“Forty-seven,” the GOG battalion commander answered, his voice flat.

Forty-seven out of ninety. General Sheen knew the rule of thumb was to take a unit out of the line after 10 percent casualties. His GOGs had taken almost 50 percent, and he was going to ask them for another sacrifice, but needs must. Jaziri had reported that the Guard armor commander he was facing had been gathering every armored vehicle he could call in.

“Have them withdraw, arm up, and set themselves along this ridge ASAP,” the young general ordered, giving its GPS location. “Then have them stand ready just below the west side of the ridge line.”

“Acknowledged.”

As they passed the ridge, Timo left groups of four GOGs every two kilometers. Adding Sergeant Major Jaziri to the communication, he paused their advance.

“We’re going to draw any pursuit past the ridge,” he explained. “The problem is their tanks are faster than we are. So here’s what we can do…” The plan was dangerous, but his GOGs were chuckling.

An exhausted sounding Jaziri had only one question. “General, pink? Why not yellow?”

* * *

Six Kilometers East of the Tigris River

All Colonel Mohammad Hossein could think was that he didn’t have any more time for this pile of excrement. The target of his frustration was the young and visibly frightened commander of the Guard Armor’s 1st Regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Mazdak Davoud.

They’d been in the commandeered farmhouse toasting his father’s impending victory when the grenades began to fall. Hossein had rushed to the door, reaching it just as the short, intense barrage ended. Spread before him was a nightmare of dead and wounded soldiers. The weapon—he assumed an artillery air burst—showered the compound with thousands of dinar-sized, jagged-edged steel chips. Five hundred men had been setting up tents and latrines. A few lucky soldiers had been hit with just one; most were torn apart by three or more. Blood spurted from wounds, and a crewman with half his face torn open collided with another whose arm had been nearly severed. Almost half their attached mech infantry and a third of the tank crews were casualties.

When Mazdak emerged a few minutes later, those who’d been at the fringe of the blasts were trying to assist the worst wounded. He took a few steps, almost slipped in a pool of blood, got wide-eyed, and ran back into the brick farmhouse. Hossein began to follow, but at the door, he paused when he heard the young officer retching loudly.

Twenty minutes later, he had a casualty count, and most of the wounded had been given first aid. Extra medics were called in from the infantry brigades near the Tigris. Once the immediate crisis was over, he hurried into the old house. They needed to react.

“We have to get out of here!” Colonel Davoud waved his arms and his voice rose. “Begotten Kurds have us ranged.”

It took Hossein a few minutes to calm him enough to explain.

“It wasn’t artillery, just some incredible man-carried weapons. Maybe dozens of 40mm mortars. Has to be a whole heavy company out there.” He tried to speak calmly.

“Hundreds!” Mazdak moaned. “They know I’m here. The Kurds are trying to assassinate me.” His eyes widened as he moved away from the window.

“More likely—” the older officer began but was cut off.

“I want them found!” Mazdak screamed. “Get patrols out now.”

Colonel Hossein hoped there was enough confusion outside that half the camp wasn’t listening to their leader panic.

“Find them,” the young officer insisted a little less loudly. “Find them, then take everyone and kill them all.”

Then, like a switch, he seemed to calm, and his expression turned nasty.

“If you don’t protect me, my father will destroy you and your entire family,” he threatened. “By Allah, you’ll watch your sons die.”

Controlling his anger, Hossein froze, then forced himself not to react. Too many enemies of the ayatollah had simply disappeared to assume the threat was just bluster.

“The patrols will go out soon, sir,” he answered, snapping a salute.

“Go!” Mazdak growled, his expression a bizarre combination of fear and arrogance.

* * *

Four hours earlier, Colonel Mohammed Hossein had been angry with Davoud. That was before seven T90s had been lost, four patrols decimated, and he’d stood amid a mound of sixty headless bodies. What remained of the captain commanding it, a friend since they were cadets at Iman Ali, was a head neatly placed at the top of the stack. He’d finally pulled everyone back and dug in. He loathed the idea that a few Kurds with mortars and janbiya could force his elite tankers to go on the defensive.

It had been an hour since the last attack, a much smaller grenade barrage that took out both his fuel tankers. Some of the pickets got a better look at the enemy. Better, that is, if the Kurds were eight-feet tall, ran faster than wild horses, and jumped ten feet into the air. At least stories about giant Kurds was better than the rumors of head-eating demons that were immune to bullets. His best remaining officer had been scanning with night vision glasses when that last attack started. His report had read simply that they were battling Ironman, just like in the American comic books, except that now there were five of them.

Whatever it was, he was a good enough officer to know it had his entire command on edge. He still commanded six hundred uninjured soldiers with almost fifty Russian tanks, and they were being hunted by five Kurds. There was no good way to put that in a report. Preparations made, Hossein forced himself to go speak with Colonel Davoud. The young officer was still hiding in the brick house, no lights showing.

As he entered, Hossein turned on a flashlight.

“Put that out!” Mazdak snarled. He was crouching against a wall and peeking out a window. “Those evil demons can see for miles.”

Not sure how to respond, the older officer waited.

“I ordered you to destroy them,” the young Davoud almost whined. “Why are they not dead and me safe?”

“These are elusive prey—” a pause, then “—sir.”

“You can’t disobey my orders,” came the implied threat.

“Preparations are made. We have fifteen T90s and six APCs full of our best soldiers. The moment they appear, we’ll run them down and execute them. A display of their bodies should restore morale,” Hossein added, wishing he could add, yours included.

“Don’t fail,” Colonel Davoud insisted, as if saying it would force Hossein’s pursuit force to succeed.

As if cued by a perverse movie director, explosions began. By the time he’d cleared the door, two T90s and a newly arrived T84 were burning. The engines of his fifteen ready tanks roared, and gears ground. Colonel Hossein hurriedly jumped on the leading T90 as it pulled away and climbed into the turret. This time, he’d lead the attack himself. The thick armor buoyed his spirits, and he knew as a matter of faith that nothing could survive a hit by their 120mm main gun. Not even a Demon Kurd.

Less than a minute later, there was a cry, and he pushed himself up until his head and shoulders were outside the turret. Men were pointing and exclaiming with glee. Over the channel, he could hear revenge in their voices.

“There they are!”

“Kill them!”

The tank just behind Hossein’s and to one side fired, and the blast helped him to see the enemy.

“They’re yellow?” the brigade commander wondered as they sped toward five small, weaving figures over a kilometer away. Their camouflage must have failed. “They were fools to attack again. Weaving, they fear us. We have them.”

“All units, fastest speed,” Hossein ordered as his own T90 surged forward. “Destroy them.”

Now that they were in sight, the Iranian commander was shocked by how angry he was at the dancing yellow figures. After twenty-two years as a soldier, he considered himself a true professional, but between the younger Davoud falling apart, and the loss of so many comrades, he wanted blood.

“Fire!” he yelled at the gunner over the vehicle intercom. “Keep firing.”

High-explosive rounds burst near the fleeing demons. Hossein didn’t want to call them that; the men were frightened enough. Still, he could find no other word for the men who’d created the hellish destruction of his prized command. Small, moving faster than any human should, and changing direction every few seconds, his tormentors were proving nearly impossible to target.

After a minute, he cheered up. They were closing on them. He’d run them down, and it would feel good. Even as he had the thought, the five yellow figures edged toward a thick grove of beech trees to the right.

“Fire, fire!” he yelled, even though the gunner was pumping out rounds as quickly as he could load. “Fire into those trees,” the colonel corrected.

The first rounds tore up the trees just as the yellow demons entered them. Then they seemed to just… disappear. Knowing the effect of wood splinters on unprotected flesh, he ordered the tanks trailing behind him to fire into the trees. He could see no result, though the debris from one much larger explosion rose over the trees at the back of the woods. Then the angry officer ordered the six APCs to run past and around the grove. He’d trap them and grind them.

The sounds of near constant explosions and the sight of tree branches flying into the air was satisfying until the lead APC exploded, and he realized another had stopped, and the crew was bailing out. Beyond the lightly armored personnel carriers, he could see five yellow figures more than a kilometer off, literally dancing and taunting him even as a third APC billowed smoke.

“There, on the left, get them!” he bellowed, wondering how they’d gotten so far, so fast.

“Everyone, target those yellow bastards,” he ordered. “Overwhelm them, kill them.”

The five turned and ran away as the first tank’s rounds landed where they’d been.

“Bracket them,” Hossein directed, and soon the explosions surrounded the weaving yellow figures. Once more they ran toward a long, narrow patch of trees, mostly pines this time. As before, just as they entered, they disappeared, though you could see through the trees to the hill behind them.

“Tree demons,” his gunner muttered, earning him a hard look.

Suspicious, Hossein scanned the terrain ahead. A few of the tanks were blasting the pines apart, but there was no sign of the Kurds.

Yes, there. A burst of yellow? Yes, five of them.

“Targets are now two kilometers due north. Pursue and destroy,” he ordered. There were more than a few confused curses as the tanks set off again in pursuit.

“Tree demons,” the gunner repeated, sounding both defiant and worried.

They’d lost sight of the yellow-clad enemy and were rolling full out over the rough ground. The tank jounced and jammed Hossein and the crew as it sped forward. They were passing between a low ridge perhaps a kilometer long and thirty meters high running four abreast, diesels pouring out gray smoke.

Then his tanks simply began to die. With his head and shoulders still outside the turret, the Iranian colonel’s eyes raced over the hillside. All along the top of the ridge, little bursts of fire sparkled, but he couldn’t see anything behind the spots of flame except blue sky.

The impact of the two railgun bolts on the T90 was enough to rock the colonel in his perch, but he hardly noticed, as the molten metal from the T90’s armor joined one of the bolts to form a lethal spray. His legs were less torn than flayed apart, and the tank commander barely felt the pain before the massive loss of blood ended all awareness.

* * *

Joining the eight other GOGs the tanks had unknowingly bypassed, Jaziri, now fully camouflaged, hurried behind the suddenly still Iranian armored vehicles. They made short work of the three APCs that had been following the tanks when they tried to turn back, as most of the heavier AFVs poured out smoke or their ammunition exploded.

Continuing past the shot-up APCs, Jaziri personally dispatched two survivors as they scrambled from their disabled vehicles. On the hillside, he knew his fellow GOGs were racing down the hill to join him in completing the slaughter.

The order from Timo himself to cease fire came less than a minute later. Kardo had just informed him that the remaining Iranian armor in the camp was fleeing toward the Tigris at full speed. There were no targets left in their kill zone.

* * *

“Well done, all,” the GOG general complimented his tired Peshmerga. Then, finding his sergeant major’s location on his HUD, he walked past a burning T85 to where Rafiq Jaziri stood. Next to him were three other GOGs. As he strode closer, Timo realized the four were the only survivors of the sixteen Peshmerga GOGs he’d watched march out of the camp.

Checking his sergeant major’s vitals, Timo could see his blood sugar and oxygen were down, and his pulse fast—all signs of exhaustion. Despite the smoke and sickening odor of burning flesh, the colonel opened his face plate. The old sergeant did the same. Both turned off all communications channels.

“Old friend,” Timo greeted the man who’d long ago trained him when he was a recruit.

“Colonel,” Jaziri replied in tired tones, too exhausted to remember Timo’s promotion. “If you’ve got another mission for us, we’re gonna need some more batteries. The last time I looked, mine were at 8 percent.”

The three GOGs behind him must have been listening, as they straightened up, awaiting orders.

The general felt pride well up, and his determination to protect the Republic and his people hardened even more.

“No more missions,” the young general responded once he could speak again. “I need you to do something more important.”

“Sir.”

“This was our first. We’ve learned better how to fight our suits, and what mistakes not to make again.”

The sergeant smiled weakly.

“I want you and these three GOGs to get on the first evac chopper. They’ll be here soon.”

Jaziri started to speak, but Timo cut him off.

“The knowledge you now have, the tactics and techniques, can’t be lost. There’ll be more battles. There are so many who’d destroy all we love. I need you to go back and teach the teachers what we’ve paid in blood to learn.” The general straightened in his GOG, looked at all four survivors, and finished. “You all are ordered back to the valley to teach the next ten thousand GOGs what you have learned.”

His hard sounding “dismissed” was mellowed by the hand he placed on Jaziri’s GOG’s stained shoulder and a quiet “thank you.”

Jaziri nodded, the gesture barely visible inside his GOG.

While the ammunition in a nearby T90 cooked off as it burned, they both closed up and hopped away. As he moved, an image of Birsin’s body appeared, and Timo shuddered. He realized just how worried he’d been about the sergeant major. That perhaps the reason he was there, and his need to join the fight, had been partially inspired by the desire to ensure the man’s survival personally. Just for a second, the young officer almost admitted to himself that he’d do whatever it took not to lose any more people he loved and needed.

When he turned his communications back on, there was an urgent signal from Colonel Kardo. As he opened the channel to the GOG Battalion’s commander, Timo wondered if the officer would come to resent that he’d ordered half his command to its destruction on their first night. The man’s excited tone reassured the general.

“That was the last of them. The Guard’s pulling out, scrambling like mad to hide with their infantry along the river. Er, Roger sends his greetings.” Beng Kardo sounded exultant, if confused by the last part. There was hope in his voice that Timo hadn’t heard in months. Kardo finished, “It’ll be dawn soon; you’d better get off that battlefield before they call in an air strike.”

“If this is going to work, I hope they can’t,” Timo responded mysteriously.

“Well, we need one bad,” the colonel warned. “I just spoke to General Gokalp, and the defense line is beginning to crack.” He sighed. “The infantry’s done more than anyone could ask. Another push, and…” His voice trailed off.

“Okay, tell all the reserve armor to be ready about noon tomorrow,” Timo responded. “That includes the heavies. Big push.”

“We need the air assets you’ve been hoarding to support the line at dawn.”

“No!” the general’s response was adamant and echoed in his helmet. “We only have a few fighters, and unless everything goes right, our Warthogs would be slaughtered by their SUs.”

“But the line?”

Timo’s voice steadied. “Tell everyone to hold. We need that cork in the bottle.”

“Cork?”

“Just have them hold, and I promise, tomorrow, this will be over.” Timo didn’t add his next thought, one way or another. “Tang’s jet is here, out,” he finished, shutting off the channel.

* * *

Near Hamadan Airbase

Iran

Ragir Razak and Kevi Dorsky had been under the thick bushes for two days, long enough they’d begun to name the insects that shared the location. Those that didn’t flee from their intrusion, anyway. Each morning they’d put on their GOGs and prepared, awaiting the go order. Then, sheltered by the leaves and branches, they watched the sky. Two low hills blocked any view of the air base, but the roar of engines revving up provided plenty of warning.

Just under two kilometers from the end of the main airstrip, they’d watched dozens of Iranian military jets taking off from their main air base at Hamadan the first day. None were evidently their target, as they weren’t ordered to fire. Then for no reason they could discern, today the base was quiet. Nothing, not even a helicopter took off. The quiet was welcome, but disconcerting.

“You know, Lieutenant, we’re what you call expendable,” Sergeant Doski said, voicing a thought both knew and neither had acknowledged. “The minute we start knocking down SU-30s, they’re going to be all over us.” She glanced at the inch-thick blocks of C4 they’d taped to their GOGs’ batteries.

“Yeah,” the young officer agreed. “That’s why the general asked for volunteers.”

“The whole battalion volunteered,” she observed. “I wonder why they chose us?”

“In my case,” Ragir answered with a grin, “it’s because I’m the best person for the job.”

“And me.” Kevi smiled back.

“You, Sergeant, are here because you, like you said, are expendable.”

Ragir was saved from a firm punch by a powered arm when the alert sounded in both helmets. The screen came alive, and a simple message appeared: Mission Cloud Cover is a go. Fire at first targets taking off.

Both shifted so they were kneeling with their railguns ready. No need to even leave the thick clump of bushes. The plan was simple. The next jets that took off were to be shot down. After that, the two Peshmerga were to make their way back to the farm, and wait to be smuggled back into Iraq, and then home. They’d been given no details on how to accomplish their withdrawal, with half the air bases’ garrison likely combing the hillsides for them—just to take as many with them as possible before self-destructing.

A short time later, the sound of jets taxiing onto the runway put both on full alert. As the sound grew louder, Kevi glanced over and said, “Here goes. Hope it’s worth it.”

Two minutes later, a jet appeared over the nearby hill. As per their agreement, Ragir locked his firing computer on it. It was almost overhead and beginning to climb when the second SU-30 came into sight.

The roar was too great for talk, even inside their GOGs, but none was needed. When Kevi saw Ragir’s GOG lock up for firing, she launched her own rod. Her target was closer now, so both hit at about the same time. The results were different, but equally deadly. Kevi’s target lost its tail first, and then broke apart as it tumbled. Ragir’s rod must have slammed into his SU-30’s engine. The fighter blew apart in a loud and impressive explosion.

A third jet dashed almost directly over their head, but they were still locked into position. By the time they were free, the Russian aircraft had made a wide turn and flown back over Hamadan.

Ragir swore as only a Peshmerga denied a target can. Then he stopped and watched in amazement as the pilot of the totally untouched SU-30 ejected. The empty fighter flew off toward the horizon.

There was silence, then every alarm on the Iranian airfield screamed.

“We may as well fight it out here,” Ragir observed grimly. “We can take a few with us before we blow.”

Kevi nodded, already watching the far hill for the expected swarm of angry soldiers. Instead, the air over the base was suddenly filled with every type of anti-aircraft weapon possible. Surface-to-air missiles flew past tracers from 20mm cannon that had first seen service in WWII. Above them, the sky was filled with flak and explosions.

They signaled their mission’s success and waited. Then waited some more. Eventually, the firing stopped, then the sirens.

Still the two Peshmerga waited, watching for the soldiers and helicopters that had to be searching for them.

Nothing. No jets, no choppers, not even the normal patrol.

Two hours later, still nothing.

After four hours of not seeing a single Iranian, the pair relaxed. Finally, Ragir said, “Not that I’m not grateful, but do you have any idea what just happened?”

“We’re not dead,” Kevi replied. “Nothing’s taken off since.”

“So if they’re not looking for us, who do they think shot down their fighters?”

“Not us,” Kevi observed.

“Fear Me, I AM GOG!” Ragir roared inside his suit, ranged comm off so only Kevi could hear.

The nine-year Peshmerga combat veteran, whose iron gaze and acid tongue was feared by whole platoons, giggled.

By 1000, they weren’t even in fighting positions. Sitting under the familiar bushes, they kept a more casual watch. The ground and air above remained empty.

“We leave late,” Ragir decided. “Maybe 0200 hours. Get some sleep.”

“Okay with this expendable,” Kevi replied with a grin.

* * *

In the Air over the Kurdish Republic

Timo Sheen ended his communication and looked down at the ground speeding past a few hundred feet below Tang’s jet. From the copilot’s seat, he could almost see the 1st Armored Regiment’s base in the distance. It seemed a long time since he’d been in command there, though in reality it was less than a year. The air-conditioned and filtered air and comfortable seat felt strange to the general after hours in his GOG. Overcoming his exhaustion, he pulled himself up and gestured for the actual copilot to take his position.

Moving to the back, Timo greeted the few GOGs still awake, and then turned to Captain Doski. The officer had been sitting with his back to the door of the cockpit and somehow seemed as alert as ever.

“I need you to be persuasive—” Timo indicated he should remain seated “—with President Hassan.”

The former head of the president’s bodyguard sat up straight and looked worried.

“He seems determined to destroy the Republic,” Timo continued. “I’ve just been told he plans to announce on a nationwide broadcast that he’s reached a peace agreement with the mullahs and demands that all Peshmerga surrender.”

Doski’s eyes widened, but he just nodded.

“That would destroy all we’ve done, just when we might have a chance.”

The self-declared head of Timo’s security said nothing, but tilted his head to one side, and sat very still.

“When we land, I need you to go to Hassan and reason with him.” There was a desperate edge to the young general’s voice. “A helicopter’s waiting. He won’t listen to me, or even Gokalp or Qadir. Hassan has to see reason.”

Timo paused, then went on.

“Our nation’s new. I can’t be the general who destroys our democracy.”

Another long pause.

“We can’t allow him to sell our people into slavery, or worse. Perhaps he’ll listen to you. Hassan can’t make that broadcast, no matter what.”

The captain stood slowly, putting himself a few inches in front of General Sheen.

“I’ll do what must be done,” he responded quietly.

The jet started its approach to land, and Timo moved to an empty seat, his expression unreadable.

* * *

Iranian Army Davoud HQ

Just Inside the Kurdish Republic

As was his practice, General Reza Davoud awoke at 5:30 am and took the time to make sure his uniform was perfect. This was going to be a big day, and the international press would be taking his photo. Coffee was placed just inside the door, a good Brazilian blend that was hard to get in Iran after thirty years of economic sanctions. At exactly 6:00 am, the commander of the invasion of the Kurdish Republic emerged into his headquarters, rested and optimistic. His mood lasted about six steps until he noticed the changes on the status maps tacked to the far walls. He pushed past his worried staff and studied the maps.

Davoud’s first reaction was that there was some sort of mistake. The Guard Armor Corps was missing—all of it. Where they’d been were casualty markers with large numbers on them.

Then he spotted the red flags that indicated the location of their most elite units. They seemed to be virtually on the banks of the Tigris. How did Mazdak plan to launch a flanking movement from there?

Then he noticed there were no movement or engagement markers on any of the three hundred formations shown on the map. Not a one? Two hundred thousand men didn’t just stand still. Where was the morning assault he’d ordered across the front? It should have just started.

It was clear no one wanted to be the first to speak. Finally, a major from Intelligence broke the silence.

“The Guard has retreated, General. The entire army is paralyzed with fear. Every unit is in a defensive position facing east. Generals are refusing the order to advance, much less attack.”

Davoud growled and reached for his sidearm. For a moment, the major’s fate was in the balance. The general instead turned to his chief of staff.

“Have the Kurds moved from their defenses? Who do they fear will attack them?” he demanded.

The answer was so soft and unsure, the army commander almost didn’t hear it.

“Demons, sir.”

“What?” Davoud yelled. “What has done this?”

The chief of staff cleared his throat and spoke again.

“They fear demons, General.”

“Demons?” Davoud was incredulous. “Demons?”

“Yes, sir.” The reply came in a worried voice. The general reached down and picked up the latest intel assessment. “They’ve been attacked by ten-foot-tall, tank-smashing, head-eating, magically appearing, yellow Forest Demons.” Then he added lamely, “That’s what the men think.”

“Desertions are growing, thousands already, sir,” a bold captain added.

“This is insane!” Davoud ranted, totally unsure how to react. “Demons?”

“Yes, sir,” several voices responded at once.

Turning on his aide, the army commander spit out a question, “Why wasn’t I woken up?”

“Sir, you ordered me not to unless the ayatollah or your son called.”

“Has he? The ayatollah?”

“No, sir, but his personal secretary has requested you call him as soon as possible,” the aide clarified.

Then everyone froze as he fought to hide concern from his face. “My son?” he demanded.

Reza Davoud spun, pulled out his Samsung phone, and dialed quickly. Again, the entire command staff listened to his side of the call.

“Mazdak, my boy, are you well?” they all heard. Then the general’s voice grew softer, and he asked a number of questions. That changed when his voice exploded.

“How many destroyed?” After a short pause, “No?” Then the older Davoud’s fingers whitened. “Demons are for children!” he yelled into the phone. “Stop whimpering.”

His voice grew calmer. “How many?”

“Five… five! Fifty tanks… a thousand of our best… ran in fear from five heathen soldiers?”

The general listened again. “Oh, only your company and two others,” Davoud responded, his voice dripping with disdain. “That’s better.”

The general spoke in short bursts. “No, don’t come here. I don’t want anyone to see you. Try to pull your command together and see if any have the balls left to fight.” Then he flung the phone against the brick wall holding the map and took a deep breath.

“Okay, we have to rectify this,” he said, his voice taking on a reassuring tone. He had a massive army and a morale problem. If he could solve the latter, they could still overwhelm the Kurds. His victory was still inevitable, just delayed.

“Now, we need to act.” Looking at the air liaison he asked, “When can I have a full-force effort? If we can’t assault, we need to keep the pressure on from the air while I reorganize.”

Stuttering, the air force colonel tried to explain about Roger Tang’s new stealth fighters and how they’d already destroyed every SU-30 that had tried to take off.

“Order them to fly,” Davoud demanded.

“They were. The ayatollah called the base commanders and personally demanded they fly. They all refused to order their pilots to certain death,” was the embarrassed reply. Then he added, “And that was before they heard about the demons.”

Rather than rage, the army commander’s expression grew thoughtful.

Turning to a fat general wearing an Iraqi uniform who was slouched at the back of the room, the Iranian commander asked, “When can your army take over the assault?”

The general looked surprised. It was the first time Davoud had even acknowledged he existed. His expression changed to worried, then suddenly much more poised.

“Sir, you ordered our entire army to stand down yesterday,” he reminded the panicky general, showing some obvious satisfaction in doing so. “You insisted that the victory be Iranian only. We followed your orders and stood down. The men are in camp and have begun maintaining the armored vehicles. Some have already removed their engines. Some infantry left on leave last night.”

The red on Davoud’s face grew darker. “Cowards,” he threatened. “I’ll have them shot.”

“All fifty thousand, or just a representative sample? Either will leave us shorthanded if you ask for our assistance again. Most of YOUR army is still intact.” Everyone in the room noted the allied officer’s tone. It was apparent the Iraqi thought the battle was irredeemably lost, and the Iranian general would soon pay the cost of his spectacular failure.

Davoud seized on a thought.

“Yes, it is. We must restore order. We haven’t lost the war, not even this battle. They’re too weak to drive my army away. Enough remain.” With that, he turned to the map, snapping out orders. No one reminded him the ayatollah was waiting on his call.

* * *

Outside Hamadan Airbase

Iran

The sergeant was on watch, which meant she was sitting up near the edge of the bushes and small trees that had been their home for three days. Kevi Dorsky had her visor open and was enjoying the feel of cool, fresh air on her face, which she accepted was illogical, as the GOGs were temperature controlled and the air filtered.

Their mission was complete; they’d returned to the shade of the familiar bushes and waited for darkness to withdraw. The morning was sunny, there were birds singing, and not a jet had passed overhead in hours. The two nearly transparent solar chargers were both working well. It was a perfectly restful morning, if you ignored the prospect that they were about to spend yet another day and the night after in their GOGs.

Mostly, as she watched for Iranian patrols, the sergeant worried about her fellow GOGs. Through the night before, there’d been a few bursts of chatter on their channel, and one agonizing scream. That was enough to give her an idea of how vicious the fighting had been. She wanted to be there, supporting the platoon she’d left behind.

Lieutenant Ragir Razak had been relaxing, which meant he was in his GOG, but laying on his back. That was the position they’d found caused the least chafing and bruising. He sat bolt upright when his HUD brightened with the craggy, dark features of Colonel Kardo.

He signaled Kevi, but the other Peshmerga had already closed her visor.

“Lieutenant,” their battalion commander began, “it seems you’re not done.”

The Peshmerga officer felt his shoulders tense. Nothing they could be asked to do two hundred kilometers inside central Iran would be life-extending.

“Sir?” Ragir responded, putting as much question into the single syllable as he could.

“Just a simple mission, nothing hard,” Kardo continued.

Doomed, Kevi mouthed, facing Ragir.

“All we need you to do is watch the airfield for a few important minutes and transmit what your camera captures to us.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant agreed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He knew it had been too easy. Had to be, they were still alive.

There was a long pause, as if Kardo expected more. Finally, Ragir spoke, hoping for the best.

“When?” he asked. “Late tonight would be ideal.” Their suits would allow them to see and transmit not only in infrared and normal, but also night vision images as well.

“Soon, minutes,” the colonel corrected. “I suspect you’ll feel it’s worth the risk.”

Kevi shook her head. All she could think of was the title of the latest James Bond movie, A View to Die For.

“You’ll know when,” their commander finished and appeared to look at his watch—which was totally unnecessary, not to mention impossible, in his GOG. “Be ready, soon. Enjoy the view,” he ended, sounding almost cheerful.

Both GOGs looked at each other in the silence that followed.

In less than twenty minutes, they knew instantly it was time to move. The silence was broken by four low-flying A-10 Thunderbolts, passing almost overhead toward Hamadan. The sound of the heavily armored but slow jets’ GE engines were distinctive. No one else in the world was still flying the venerable ground attack aircraft, known by most as the “Warthog,” or just “Hog.” The US had phased them out a decade before, and the newly formed Kurdish Republic was offered a deal on the remaining two hundred. Many had since been scrapped for parts, but a decade later, there were still a hundred and twenty of the solidly built aircraft in service. Obsolete and too vulnerable by Western military standards, the aircraft was excellent for suppressing infiltrators and supporting small unit skirmishes. With comparatively weak air-to-air defenses, a Hog jumped by an SU was dead. But here, the Peshmerga found themselves watching as four flew overhead, deep inside Iran, toward the mullahs’ largest air base.

By the time they rose and ran toward the nearest hilltop with a view of the air base, two more flights of four streaked past. By the time they’d reached the top of the hill, a dozen more Hogs were screaming in low from another direction.

Hamadan Air Base was spread out before them. It had two long, parallel runways, with a third shorter runway crossing them at a right angle. Lining the side of the runways were a dozen sand and concrete revetments that sheltered two SU-34s each. Twice that number were lined up in neat rows in parking areas that ran along the side of the two major runways. To their right was a large complex of buildings and roads. Trailing off into the distance behind the airport buildings were blocks filled with modern-looking houses.

There had been three surface-to-air missile batteries. All three were now shattered, burning wrecks, showing what the first Hogs had targeted with their Maverick IV missiles. One SU-34 was taxiing to take off, and pilots were running toward many of the other fighters lining the airstrip.

The roar of secondary explosions, sirens, and small-arms fire was loud, even at a distance. The throaty growl warned them as the next wing approached. They came in, flying at what in any unarmored aircraft would have been dangerously low. As they approached, the Peshmerga saw all four release their missiles, and then fire their nose-mounted Avenger 30mm cannons. The Hog’s AP rounds were capable of penetrating T90 armor at six kilometers. Firing at 2,100 rounds per minute, the Kurdish pilots simply walked their cannon fire along the lines of parked aircraft, leaving them in ruins.

A wall of fire and explosions lined both runways, and the two GOGs were astonished to see that the lone SU-34 was still taking off, gathering speed while bracketed by explosions throwing aircraft parts high into the air on each side. The sight was like a scene from a Hollywood spectacular.

“Look at him,” Ragir commented as the fighter began to lift.

“Let him go?” Kevi asked.

“Naw,” Ragir answered, kneeling and locking his railgun on the approaching jet fighter. Kevi did the same seconds later.

From the hillside that was higher than the runway, they both fired at a point where their rods would hit the Russian-built fighter from the front. One—both later claimed it was theirs—entered almost dead center on the fuselage and tore through the length of the jet. When it reached the fuel-engorged engines straining to take off, the jet instantly became a ball of orange, red, and yellow fire. Small pieces of the SU-34 fell nearby, but mostly to one side of the two Peshmerga.

When they looked up again, another flight of A-10s was closing in on Hamadan. Kevi even cheered as they fired into the protective revetments sheltering the last intact SU-34s. As each pair of ground-penetrating missiles hit the open front of the sand-covered hangars, they erupted with a burst of flame and debris. The air was filled with the growl of distant explosions.

They thought the attack had just ended when a single flight of four A-10s flew in on each side of the two cheering GOGs. The Peshmerga watched as they split into two pairs, lined up on them, and flew down the length of each air strip, dropping cluster bombs. After the massive explosions earlier, the rapid pop as each small bomb penetrated a few inches into the concrete and exploded sounded like a string with hundreds of firecrackers going off. Hundreds of the bomblets cratered both mile-long runways, covering them in a fog of concrete dust.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the attack was over. More shocked by the sheer scale of destruction than in obedience to their orders, both GOGs continued to watch. The sirens and small-arms fire ended, but the secondary explosions continued. Looking carefully, neither Peshmerga could find an intact jet.

Kevi literally jumped several inches, which wasn’t hard to do in a GOG, when Colonel Kardo’s grinning face filled their HUDs.

“Told you it would be worth it!” he crowed, then calmed. “Now get back out of sight and come home safely.”

* * *

Base Headquarters

Kurdish Armored Battalion

Nisti Khan forced herself to leave the wonderful, itch-stopping, soothing warm water. The soap had stung in a surprising number of areas. Tang’s suits were amazing, but the padding needed a lot of improvement if they were going to be suitable for extended campaigns. The newly promoted captain was also aware just how badly she’d needed a shower. After four days in her GOG, even her anxiety over the massive Iranian attack had faded for a few minutes. As she luxuriated, though, the former sergeant dreaded having to clean the inside of her GOG, which was currently filled with disinfectant spray.

As she left the shower, Nisti realized she had no uniform. All she’d been wearing under her GOG was the standard-issue black body suit. Based on the labels, it had been designed for scuba divers. It had no rank, designations, or anything on it, but she was proud, because it marked her as a GOG. She’d washed it in the sink before showering, so it was slightly damp as she put it on. She noticed briefly, but simply didn’t care, that it showed off her athletic figure. It was good enough for a lot of Peshmerga to die in, so she’d wear it proudly to the briefing. When she entered the 1st Armored briefing area, Nisti was unsurprised to see that the four other GOGs in the room had made the same decision.

The cinderblock room was painted gray and featured four rows of folding chairs, all facing a large video screen with a Tang Industries logo in the corner. The high ceiling was a tangle of vents, ducting, and wires interspersed with daylight-bright LEDs. The briefing room had only about two dozen officers in it, and most appeared to have just arrived. Several hadn’t washed, and two had been wounded. One infantry major was still dripping, using paper towels in his other hand to absorb the blood.

All had the look of officers separated from their troops and anxious to get back to them. The strange officer that had returned with the general from his flight to Western Command stood in one corner, watching everyone silently. The room smelled of sweat and worry. There seemed little hope. Even Nisti wondered how the sacrifices of a few hundred GOGs could stop so many Iranians. Everyone spoke in low tones, with a lot of head shaking and shrugs. While not beaten, most were beaten down, and they acted like it.

As a captain, especially a newly commissioned one, Nisti assumed she was by several grades the lowest-ranking officer there. Unsure what else to do, she hurried over to Colonel Kardo and sat down beside him. The GOG commander welcomed her with a nod. A few minutes later, a side door opened, and Timo entered, followed by Generals Gokalp and Qadir from the General Staff. There was no order, but everyone in the room stood.

General Sheen moved slowly, his eyes focused far away, with pain obvious in his expression. Nisti was suddenly worried but couldn’t see a wound. As the young general turned to face the assembled officers, his expression changed from sorrow to intent. Standing before the large video screen, his voice began softly, but quickly hardened.

“Our home, our Republic, is under attack. An attack whose purpose is to destroy us as a people and enslave our families.”

There was no sound in the room as he paused to turn on the briefing.

“You’re all Peshmerga I trust. Many of you have fought valiantly to hold our defense positions against overwhelming odds. A few have even done something just as hard, held their units in reserve for no reason other than because I ordered you to. Now, my trusted brothers and sisters, it’s time for me to explain.

“Here’s the situation.”

A map of the southern frontier as it was days earlier appeared. Every unit from all sides was marked by black or red squares. The southern valley of the Tigris River, which plunged into the heart of their homeland, was filled with literally hundreds of red markers. A click, and the mass of red markers moved north and spread out from the river. With the next click, the massive swarm of invaders advanced further.

On that image, a thin black line appeared, stretching from the Tigris just north of Tikrit and east for some distance. By the next image, the line was thicker, but no wider. There were too many red markers to count, and it was apparent just how badly they were outnumbered.

“Two days ago, our courageous Peshmerga managed to stop the advance—” the sorrow in the young general’s voice made it hard to understand for a few words “—and they have paid dearly to do so.

“Last night—” Timo’s tone hardened “—a team of specially trained commandoes struck at the Guard Armor Division on the Iranian flank. As you can see, they drove it in.”

The GOG general clicked to the current situation. The red blob was pushed together and packed thickly along the river. On the previous map, there were units still spread south, but many red units were also farther east than the edge of the Peshmerga line. On this map, everything red was within a few kilometers of the river.

The room filled with murmurs of surprise. A new map appeared that showed the status of each company of Peshmerga. Every officer knew the coding. Unlike other armies, whose units weren’t considered combat-worthy after 10 percent casualties, the Kurds had been steeled by four thousand years of fighting to survive as a people. The units were never shown as unready for combat. Every Peshmerga knew they didn’t have that option. You fought, withdrew on orders, or died. The colors simply reflected the percentage of soldiers still capable of fighting. They ran from green, at over 90 percent effective, through yellow, orange, red, and finally purple, indicating less than 40 percent. There were no green markers at all along the line. Many were yellow, some orange, and too many were red or purple. Looking at the screen, Nisti realized if the GOGs had a marker, it would be purple.

The screen changed again, and the Iranian army appeared marked in green or red. There were a lot of red markers in front of the Kurds’ positions, but behind them were several times as many green units.

“This map shows the current condition of the enemy,” the general explained. “They’ve been hurt, but not badly enough to stop them from overwhelming us. No matter how valiantly we fight there, they can keep throwing bodies at us.”

A few angry and frustrated sounds interrupted.

“Outnumbered six to one, we had to find another way. If we couldn’t defeat their bodies, we decided to go after their minds.”

Nisti could see the tired officers suddenly sit up straighter.

“We don’t have their numbers, but the Iranian soldier is a conscript, one who’s been kept in line with myths of demons and divine retribution from birth. Yes, their army is massive, but their morale is fragile. For the last two days, we’ve maneuvered to destroy that morale. You holding so stubbornly has been a big part of it. With your help—with one strong push at the right moment—their numbers will mean nothing.”

Timo’s voice was loud now, and he was pacing in front of the room.

“What I tell you can’t leave this room, but you need to know why I’m going to ask for one last effort from your tired Peshmerga.” The young commander’s voice was filled with pride. Jaziri and the two survivors of his platoon entered, bowed over, through the side door. Their GOGs were stained with blood and tarnished by hits. Together, they cycled through from khaki, to white, to black.

“These are the GOG combat suits. They’re part of a secret force we’ve been training for months. It was they who drove in the Guard Armor. Let me tell you what the average Iranian soldier thinks they are, and what else we’re doing…”

The explanation ended with a magazine featuring Roger Tang’s press conference and Timo describing how that and a few GOG attacks had grounded the entire Iranian air force.

General Sheen allowed a few minutes for the officers to absorb it all, and when conversation subsided, he finished. “I’ve received confirmation that our A-10s, not fearing interception, smashed the Iranians on their runways. We suffered no losses. Iran no longer has an air force. Once our Warthogs can refuel and rearm, they’ll attack the great mass of units packed together along the Tigris. Then it’ll be time for them to support our remaining armor and for every unit in the line to attack.” His voice sobered, then rose. “Today we’ll either drive them down the river or die trying. Return to your commands. Detailed orders will be issued as you leave.”

Some cheered, a few stood, and all the officers were visibly energized. Timo had given them a chance in what they’d all felt was a hopeless situation. As the room cleared, Timo called out to his GOG officers to stay. He had another special mission for the GOGs that remained.

* * *

Base Headquarters

Kurdish Armored Battalion

The young general moved slowly into a room in the BOQ at the armored base. The simply furnished room was small with gray walls and a single LED overhead. After the emotional high of the meeting, his mood had changed drastically. He’d just realized his job was done. For weeks he’d pushed, collapsing, exhausted, every night, and rising early. That had helped. When he kept busy, he didn’t have to remember.

But walking back to the room, Timo realized the war would be over within hours. In the event that his plan continued to work, there’d still be a Republic, but the briefing had been the last action he’d needed to take personally. The last duty he’d assigned himself. All the Peshmerga commanders were briefed and ready. The surviving GOGs were assembling in a hangar for their attempt to disrupt the Iranian HQ. Everyone with a functional suit had volunteered. Bruised, sleepless, even wounded, they’d cheered as they demanded to be part of a mission that was a long shot they were unlikely to survive.

Timo froze, seeing a future where he was still so alone, with no purpose, and no nation. The letdown was an almost physical blow. His heart beat loudly, and his breathing grew faster. To save the Republic, he’d broken his oath, disobeyed direct orders, deceived the president, and been the cause of a fellow officer’s death. Even with a victory, his military career was over. He had no future in the Peshmerga.

Timo staggered a few steps and sat down, dropping his head into his hands, torn by dark visions of the future and guilt over the near certainty that many, if not all of his GOGs would die in the next few hours. Even the battalion he’d built would be lost. He could picture those young Peshmerga. They had a future, yet were going to near certain death, while he, with no one, no purpose, no career, and no reason to live, would only listen to their reports in the command bunker.

An icy feeling swept over him, and Timo felt his strength returning. There was no reason to command from the rear. He had no future or desire for one. If his GOGs were going to fight and die in a desperate attempt to support the counterattack, he could fight and die with them. His pain would end, and anything was better than waiting for the personal hell that was his bleak future.

“Jaziri,” Timo Sheen all but yelled into the phone, “get my GOG ready.”

* * *

Southern Kurdish Republic

The line of Chinook CH-47E helicopters flew low, their shadows frightening several herds of goats and horses. The gray and yellow earth rushed less than a hundred meters below, dust rising in little whorls created by the twin rotors as they passed. To the west, just over the horizon, a jumble formed by tens of thousands of Iranian soldiers slowly reformed into a fighting force near the Tigris. The six old but well-maintained helicopters held virtually all the remaining combat-worthy GOGs. The eighteen suit-clad Peshmerga on each could feel the vibration of the two straining engines as the heavy lift choppers pushed their limits in both load and speed.

Sitting with his back to the pilots, Timo could see how tired his GOGs were. Some had even managed to find a way to slouch while standing in their combat armor. Everyone’s head hung from an exhaustion that was more than physical. Rearmed and with new batteries, the eighteen GOG suits in front of Timo were all marked by hits, showing scorch marks and signs of hurried repair.

Another four dozen GOG troopers still lived, though most were too injured to continue. A few had suits so badly damaged that they were beyond quick repair. Two thirds of all the GOGs that had marched off a few days earlier were dead or maimed—mostly dead.

A blast shook the Chinook, and everyone had to brace themselves as it rocked. One standing GOG fell backward and dented the chopper’s hull. Timo glanced at his HUD status panel, which confirmed the worst. His hands formed into fists at the knowledge that they’d lost one of the choppers, and more of his GOGs were gone forever.

A few of the suited Peshmerga glanced at each other. No one said anything.

For a minute, Timo just stared at the two lines of men and women swaying in front of him. He hated that he was sacrificing the best and bravest of those he wanted to defend. The young general wanted to tell himself that this mission was needed to defend his people, but he was having trouble sorting that out from the need for revenge.

Timo knew he shouldn’t be leading this attack, but he ached to destroy the men who’d murdered his family and led others against his people. He tried hard not to admit, even to himself, that his need to lead the strike against those responsible for their deaths personally drove him to be there, perhaps even more than the necessity of disrupting the Iranian command structure.

A GOG to his left coughed. It was a wet cough, and somehow even a tired one. Did he even have the right to ask more of these Peshmerga?

Captain Nisti Khan raised her head. They all had their faceplates up. She must have seen something in Timo’s face.

She looked at him, then looked around at the other GOGs. She spoke over the open channel. “Never Again.”

A few of the GOGs seemed to sit taller.

“For our people, our land, after too many centuries,” Nisti’s voice got louder, “we say NEVER AGAIN.”

This time everyone on the chopper responded, and there was an echo inside his helmet as those on the other helicopters joined in.

Everyone was sitting up, some even checking their gear.

When it quieted, Timo spoke.

“Never again… I have to ask you all to follow me into one more fight against outrageous odds.”

No one responded. Even the roar of the Chinook’s double blades seemed to get quieter.

“The courage of the defense line and the sacrifices you’ve already made has stopped the enemy, but that’s not enough. Tomorrow, a month, a year from now, they’ll be back. Stopping them is not enough; we have to shatter their army.”

Timo paused. He couldn’t help but wonder if they, or anyone, could actually do that. He was all too aware that if this or any part of his plan failed, disaster would follow.

“The Iranian army is now concentrated on one bank of the Tigris. Most of it is still in confusion. Morale is low. But they’ve begun to reorganize. They still have four times our numbers. Another day to recover, and all you achieved last night will be for nothing.”

There was an audible grumble from many of the GOGs.

“In less than an hour, all the armor and artillery we’ve painfully held in reserve, along with everyone on the line, and most of the Western Defense Force is going to attack. Our entire air force will support them. We’ll either prevail or die trying.

“A shattering victory today is our home’s only hope.”

The young general paused, knowing his plan sounded desperate, because it was. They were going to achieve victory by attacking an army four times their size.

“There’s one problem. General Davoud.” He spit out the name. “The son of a dog may be evil, but he’s competent. Left safely in his HQ, he’ll rally too many units, they’ll stand, then others will, and we’ll be slaughtered.

“That devil is surrounded by SAM sites and located too far back for our artillery. We’re the only unit with any hope of attacking their command center. We must land, fight our way through to it, and smash it.” Timo’s voice grew bitter. “Cut off the head, and the snake will writhe in agony, then die.”

“Let’s send a half meter of depleted up his ass,” one of the GOGs muttered loudly enough to be heard by everyone on the Chinook as he extended his railgun arm. Timo saw smiles, and that gave him some hope. Hope that was followed by sadness that he had to lead such Peshmerga to near certain death.

“We deploy in a few minutes. Check your loads,” Timo ordered in as firm a voice as he could muster, and then switched to the channel monitored by his senior officers. “It’s a go. Attack, I repeat, attack.”

Too quickly, the tone of the rotors changed, and they were dropping.

* * *

Presidential Office Building

Kirkuk

Kurdish Republic

What surprised Captain Jiwani Doski first was that no one stopped him as he walked into the capitol building. The guards at the tall triple doors recognized him, and even saluted. The bodyguard felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen. He was still worried as he went up to his old office, just outside the president’s. Once there, the captain was surprised that there were only a few people at the almost thirty desks in the cubicles in the outer office. He’d expected a bustle of activity, considering there was a war going only a few hundred kilometers to the south. The handful there greeted the bodyguard and somehow looked relieved.

In his office, Jiwani hesitated, even sitting and looking through the stack of new memos and reports. It was all routine stuff. He’d been happy working here. It had been both important and challenging. Since it was apparent no one knew he’d killed Sepan Rekani, the bodyguard found himself reluctant to face the president. Doski prided himself on loyalty. Finally decided, he stood with a surge that pushed his chair back a meter and strode into the president’s office.

“Doski, thank Allah,” President Hassan greeted him, and then waited as he crossed the large office to stand next to the leader’s desk.

“Mr. President,” the captain responded as he stood to attention a few feet from him.

“Where have you been?” Hassan demanded, sounding both concerned and irritated.

“It took me some time to make contact with General Sheen.”

The president began a smile that grew. “So it’s done?”

“No,” Doski answered simply.

The smile faded, and the president’s face reddened. “Why not?” he snapped. “You had an order.”

“I took an opportunity instead. I’ve penetrated his inner circle.”

“So?” Hassan challenged.

“That’s enabled me to find out vital information,” Doski explained in his calmest voice.

The president stood up and turned to face him, still in front of his desk. Doski wasn’t sure whether it was from interest or ire. He took a half step back and continued.

“To begin, the attack, as you must be aware, is most real. The bulk of the Iranian army is involved.”

Hassan grew visibly angry. “That’s what he’s told you. It’s a lie. He wants to use the Peshmerga to replace me. It’s a coup. I’m the elected president. This is my country, not his.”

Doski hurried to speak. “But all isn’t lost. General Sheen’s managed to field a secret weapon, a sort of Ironman suit. They’ve disrupted the attack.”

“Secret weapons, superman suit, foolish lies—” Hassan’s tone was harsh “—and you fell for it. Sheen has made a fool of you.”

The captain tried to protest, but Hassan cut him off with an abrupt gesture.

“Let me tell you what’s really going to happen. Perhaps you can still prove yourself to me.”

Doski nodded. He’d seen President Hassan in a tirade before, and his habit was to simply ride it out.

Poking with a finger that jammed into the captain’s breastbone, the president pulled himself up and put his face inches away from the much taller bodyguard’s. Spitting as he spoke, Hassan ticked off his points with jabs to the chest.

“Listen to me. The so-called invasion army is a show of force, nothing more. If they’re firing back, it’s in response to Sheen tricking the Peshmerga into firing on them first.”

Poke.

“We both know they can crush us easily, hardly slowing on the march here. I am, despite the disloyalty of my generals, going to save my presidency and our people.”

Hassan’s eyes lost their focus as if remembering something. Then he explained. “I was assured less than an hour ago by the supreme ayatollah himself that they’re merely waiting for the joining of our two nations. His army has made every effort to minimize casualties.”

“But—” Doski tried to correct him, but the president’s eyes were still unfocused, and he didn’t seem to hear the captain at all. His finger stabbed painfully into the bodyguard’s chest.

“Next, I have every assurance that after we surrender—which I’m going to do in front of the world and our own cameras in less than an hour—I, we, will be welcomed into the Greater Caliphate.”

Hassan paused, calming visibly, and smiling.

“I have every assurance that I’ll continue as the leader of all Kurds. They’ll treat those loyal to me well. And you, Doski, will become a general. You’ll like that. There will be several openings in the next few days.”

“Sir,” the bodyguard tried to argue, raising his voice enough to interrupt, “that’s not the case. It’s a full out attack, and we’re holding them.” As he listened to the man rant, Doski admitted to himself that he’d come hoping to explain the situation to the president and somehow reconcile him with General Sheen. His emotions welled and sank as he realized that wouldn’t happen. Hassan was concerned with nothing but preserving his own privileged position. He had to give it one more try, he just had to.

In a loud voice, he interrupted, “By the demons, we are winning.”

Hassan looked concerned, then replied just as vehemently, “They’ve tricked you. The only hope is surrender.” His voice became ominous. “You can’t stop me from saving my presidency.” Then without warning, Hassan turned and pulled open a drawer on his desk, grabbing at a pistol in it.

Doski surged forward without thinking, grabbing the old man from behind and on the wrist as it rose from the drawer holding the weapon.

Twice, Jiwani smashed Hassan’s hand onto his desk. Finally, the gun went flying. The president tried to scream, but Doski clamped his arm across the smaller man’s neck. The scream became a gurgle. Tightening his other arm across the Kurdish president’s chest, Doski squeezed twice as the president writhed and struggled until the bodyguard considered letting the man go. It came to Doski that he’d spent two years using every skill he had to prevent others from doing to Hassan exactly what he was doing now.

Loyalties raged and conflicted, but he continued to squeeze. Amazed at himself, Doski continued and wondered if General Sheen had expected this to happen. As the president weakened, he realized he had no choice.

Hassan’s struggles weakened further.

Doski squeezed tighter.

It took a great act of willpower for Doski to continue the pressure, but he did. He could feel the president’s spasms as the man’s brain screamed for oxygen. Pressed against him, the older man’s body smelled of fear and urine. This is my duty to the Republic, Doski told himself, but he was still sickened.

Finally, the president stopped resisting. Still the captain held tightly, seconds more until he was sure the man he’d once sworn to protect was dead. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Doski staged the body so Hassan was again sitting at his desk. Then he straightened both their clothes.

Who was he? What had he become? In the last three days, he’d personally assassinated two of his nation’s most important Kurds. The fact that he was a murderer twice over slapped his consciousness and overwhelmed his thoughts. It took Doski a few minutes to stop shaking.

More deep, controlled breaths.

Once he’d calmed enough and was breathing evenly, Captain Jiwani Doski, official head of presidential security, opened the office door and yelled.

“Hurry! The president has collapsed. Call a doctor.”

* * *

Southern Defense Line

Kurdish Republic

Major Firhad Sirvan tried to cover the radio with his body while searching for the division’s new frequency. He was crouched low in the trench, more worried about losing the radio than being hit by shrapnel. They could replace him, but this was their last radio. He and Corporal Gorda had dragged it fifty meters down from what remained of the HQ bunker’s wreckage.

Their bunker had been destroyed just after dawn, and six hours later, the Iranian artillery still seemed to be concentrating on destroying what was left of it. The slow barrage had continued since sunrise. They’d been fired at for so long, he had a pretty good idea that there were four 6-gun batteries firing on his battalion. You could tell, since there was a pattern of six ground-shaking blasts followed by a pause filled with the sound of clay and dirt falling back to the earth until the next six shells arrived.

He had no idea how many in his command remained. Runners had been carrying messages, but he’d ordered them to shelter when it became apparent the barrage would continue. Gorda used a periscope to look over the crumbled clay trench edge. They’d been waiting for the attack, waiting and waiting, but the Iranians hadn’t moved. When Sirvan was finally able to hear Division HQ, he looked up at the corporal who scanned the wasteland in front of them. He shrugged.

Nothing.

Then another six shells landed just in front of their new position, and the battalion clerk dived for shelter.

After identifying himself and reporting his battalion’s status, the major waited for the same orders he’d been given since the battle started. But instead of being ordered to “Hold at all costs,” he was shocked to be told to prepare for a counterattack.

Sirvan literally sputtered, “We’re at half strength and facing an entire fresh regiment.”

“Acknowledged,” came the tired reply. “Your orders remain; prepare for offensive action.”

All the major could think was that the Peshmerga on the other end had lost it.

“Let me speak with someone in authority,” he demanded.

The reply came quickly and with a voice edged in anger. “This is Colonel Tovi.” Then the officer just sighed and sounded tired. “Major, I’m here alone. I sent everyone up to the line before the barrage started.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Sirvan replied quickly. “Attacking in our condition?”

“Those are your orders. They’re the same orders everyone on the line has been given. Just be ready.”

“When?” Major Sirvan could make no sense of it.

“I’ve been told to prepare, and then wait. General Sheen himself gave me the order.”

“Yes, sir.” What else could he say? Either a miracle was happening, or the entire command structure had lost contact with reality. He was too tired to allow himself any real hope.

As Corporal Gorda crawled out of the shallow hole he’d been sheltering in on the side of the trench, the major signaled for him to summon the runners. Sirvan’s shoulders tensed before he realized he heard a sound, the growing roar of jet engines. He prepared to dive low, as past Iranian air attacks had been punishing. Strangely, he realized, there’d been none today. Then the young officer stood tall and scanned the sky, ignoring the occasional artillery round landing nearby. This was different; the sound and the direction were unfamiliar.

The first wave of six Kurdish Warthog ground attack jets flew past overhead, their undersides covered with ordnance. He could hear his Peshmerga cheering. That cheer died when they passed over the Iranian troops massed in front of them without attacking. Then another flight, and another passed over, and he could see more flying past to either side.

His men and the Iranians turned and followed the Warthogs’ path. The nearby cheering returned at the sound of distant blasts. The major realized it had to be coming from the Iranian artillery positions along the front. They could all see the towering clouds of black smoke, and secondary explosions were audible in the distance.

Minutes passed, and no more artillery rounds landed. Five warthogs flashed back over their position. Everyone cheered and waved. For the first time in days, nothing was attacking their line. Within a few minutes, the rest of Warthogs flew past, returning over their lines, ordnance expended.

He and Gorda stood there for a few minutes, mouths open, trying to accept the change of fortune. Sirvan allowed himself to think about the next hours, even tomorrow, realizing only then that he’d spent days living with the certainty he’d soon die, unwilling to retreat when their positions were overrun. Ten minutes later, he was briefing his runners, just in case they really were going on the offensive. Then he heard the A-10s again. The major realized that somewhere just behind the lines, there had to be forward air bases rearming the jets.

This time the ground attack jets came in even lower, and at a steep angle to their positions. The thrumming roar of their engines throbbed against his chest. A mechanical screech added to the roar as they leveled out over the Iranian lines. A few surface-to-air missiles rose from the Iranian positions; one hit, and the aircraft just turned and limped away. That left over two dozen Warthogs visible from Sirvan’s command bunker.

He watched, frozen with surprise, as they unleashed a torrent of incendiary and cluster bombs. Crackles soon turned into a continuous, deadly growl. Entire battalions of the Iranian infantry and armor, in the open and massing for another attack, were engulfed in the resulting inferno. The air smelled of burning and sulfur. A wall of heat passed over the Peshmerga line, even a kilometer away. Less than fifteen minutes later, the ground attack aircraft were back. A few more fell to missiles. Major Sirvan knew how vulnerable the aged A-10s were in the air. He wondered where the Iranian fighters were for a moment, then just watched the spectacle.

The A-10s flew south a third time fifteen minutes later. This time, many of the Peshmerga stood in front of their trenches and cheered, pumping their arms, and waving at the pilots. Across from them, all was still chaos. Not a single surface-to-air missile rose in defense. Those sections of the Iranian line that hadn’t been hit appeared to be hastily retreating. A few of the Warthogs peeled off and hurried them on their way. Not a shot was fired at his exposed Peshmerga. The contrast from just a few hours before was striking. By the sixth time the Warthogs flew over, no one cheered. They were too busy preparing to attack. Still, many of the dirty, exhausted, and battered Peshmerga grinned.

Then what remained of the Kurdish artillery opened up, firing deep, and Major Sirvan looked left to see dust streaming behind a platoon of Abrams tanks pushing across the no-man’s-land. Flames from the barrels of their guns showed they were already in action. He signaled what remained of his battalion by simply pointing his arm toward the fleeing enemy and beginning to walk.

* * *

Six Kilometers West of Iranian Army Davoud HQ

Even with the chopper gunners suppressing, the GOGs landed under heavy fire. As Timo slid off the Chinook, a bullet spanged into the helicopter’s hull just over his head. Scanning the situation, the young general could see that one of the helicopters had been hit hard. It sat at an angle, its rotors broken and embedded in the hard clay. Smoke poured from its engine. As he watched, nine GOGs hurried off and ran hard. They were perhaps fifty meters away when the entire aircraft exploded. If he hadn’t been in his GOG, the concussion would have sent the commander rolling and likely crippled him. Only nine? It came to him then that those remaining aboard must have been dead or injured too badly to move. All nine GOGs had cratered together. He used a few phrases the Prophet didn’t approve of and then surveyed the battlefield.

They’d landed in a sloping valley, the only real open terrain large enough for all the choppers at once. The Iranian Command position was about three kilometers distant and hidden by three lines of low hills. The area between was filled with both advancing and retreating soldiers and vehicles. A column of ten trucks full of infantry had been moving through the landing zone and had already been shot up badly by the waist gunners. Near the fallen Chinook, two BTR-80 APCs burned, a bullet-riddled crewman sprawled nearby. It was likely they’d brought down the helicopter with their 30mm auto cannons, and the surviving GOGs had taken instant revenge. Iranians on the trucks had poured out, some running, but a good number hiding among the wrecked vehicles and firing at the GOGs as they offloaded.

As the remaining four Chinooks lifted off, their gunners continued to pour rounds over the heads of the suited Peshmerga into the soldiers hiding among the trucks. GOGs were moving forward, firing as they rushed at them. Timo realized there was nothing he could order or do until they’d secured the landing area. He joined in the firing, picking targets carefully. Then a dozen GOGs were among the Iranians, and within seconds, none remained. Another GOG lay on the ground. The problem must have been with his suit as two others were tearing his armor off. The almost naked Peshmerga stumbled away as one of the GOGs carried his armor to a bullet-riddled truck nearby. A moment later, the truck and suit burst into orange and yellow, leaving a small crater and a rain of debris.

“Form three lines,” Timo ordered. “The first two lines, advance.” That meant one line would alternately move through the other while the second provided covering fire.

Even as he spoke, a line of Iranian soldiers appeared on the low ridge between them and the enemy HQ and began firing.

“Line three, follow and clear that ridge with grenades once in range. Then suppress the flanks.”

The general hurried toward the first line. He’d lead the attack just as Alexander had led his companions through the entire Persian army at Gaugamela. He was passing through the third line when armored hands reached out from either side and held him quite firmly. Timo actually struggled for a few seconds.

“That honor is mine,” Captain Nisti Khan announced as she stood in front of her commander. Then, remembering her military history lessons, she added, “Lee to the rear.”

Timo gritted his teeth but understood the reference. He wanted with every fiber of his being to be the first GOG to enter the HQ and slaughter Davoud and everyone there personally, but he now commanded the army, not just these few remaining GOGs. This was a battle, and not the last one his people would have to win if they were to survive. A bullet, almost spent, thudded off his chest, causing that portion of his suit to firm up. The thump woke him.

The young officer realized that every GOG had paused and was watching, while he could hear and see bullets landing near or even on their armor.

“Take the point, Captain,” Timo managed, forcing himself to relax a little.

Nisti Kahn turned and hurried forward in the GOGs’ swift, sliding run. Turning again toward the enemy, the armored Peshmerga began their advance.

* * *

Iranian Army Davoud HQ

Hearing about the rout of his forward battalions, General Reza Davoud stormed across the room to pull the Iranian air force general attached to his HQ from his chair.

The enraged army commander’s face was so close to the heavy-set air officer, spittle splashed into the frightened man’s eye. “Where are your fighters?” he bellowed. “The Kurdish dogs are attacking with obsolete junk.”

“Stealth fighters,” the heavy-set general stuttered and pulled away so hard, he slammed back into his chair. “Ours were blown apart on the runways,” the air officer explained in pleading tones.

“Some survived,” Davoud insisted. “Order them up and shoot those who refuse.” He spun away from the frightened general.

“Both jets?” the airman whined at his back.

Davoud, every muscle rigid, walked a few steps and looked at the updated map. His entire front line had gone from green to red. The location and status of many of his forward units was unknown. Almost half were marked only with question marks. Those whose status was known were retreating, creating chaos among the densely packed units he’d been advancing behind them. Units that were now joining them in flight.

For minutes, no one said anything or approached the motionless general. The techs continued to mark units or remove them from the map.

The general stood, breathed deeply, and stared at the ground. The silence was near total. Then he moved away from the map and looked at the room full of dispirited officers.

“The cowardly Kurds’ infantry hasn’t attacked. Only our front-line battalions were driven back. The bulk of our army hasn’t seen battle. We’ll outnumber them two to one instead of four. Contact all the units you can. Tell them to just hold. We can still win!”

Heartened, everyone in the villa returned to their tasks as General Davoud stood, silently clenching and unclenching his hands. He understood what was happening. When the battalions fell back, they pressed against the formation behind them, and both became disorganized. Soon, every unit would become uncontrollable and retreat. If enough would just hold, the retreat would end.

It took almost twenty minutes before units began to hold, their markers returning to green. Most of those fleeing the bombardment along the front were now blocked by the almost shoulder-to-shoulder mass of the still-organized formations. The status board showed that the Kurds’ bombing of their front lines continued, but dozens of units remained untouched. There were just too many for the Kurds to bomb them all. The Iranian commander snapped orders. “Get me Ahmaqdi, 2nd Division, then Mir Mohammad at 4th. Order the reserve to swing east and move north.”

Saying that, the general paused when he heard nearby blasts and firing. He smiled, assuming some of those annoying A-10s had discovered his air defenses. The slow-moving Kurdish jets wouldn’t last long under the fire of his SAMs. He was in no danger.

Davoud’s eyes landed on the symbol representing the concentration of armor his son had gathered. There were almost a hundred tanks there. They alone could balance out the situation and distract any pursuit. Bypassing military comms, he dialed Mazdak on his cell phone.

“Father,” his son answered immediately, if breathlessly. “What’s happening? We’re six kilometers back and seeing whole units retreating past us. The men are beginning to panic.” From the sound of his son’s voice, the youth had already panicked.

“A setback,” Davoud said slowly and calmly. “Listen, Mazdak, I need you to take every vehicle there and attack toward the Kurds. Losses are unimportant. Buy me time.”

“What?” his son sounded confused, hesitant.

“Lead every tank, every vehicle, every man straight north and strike the enemy,” the older Davoud demanded more sternly.

“But the demons—”

“There are no demons,” his father said, cutting him off harshly. The general then decided that his victory was more important than his son’s advancement. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to relieve Mazdak. He never did, as two events interrupted him.

The first was the sound he heard over his phone of bombs exploding nearby, and tanks burning. Then the line went silent. The second was the panicky exclamations of his staff as reports came in of Kurdish aircraft dropping thousands of tons of munitions along the kilometers-long mass of tightly packed soldiers and vehicles now pressed together against the Tigris.

For the next few minutes, no one even attempted to keep the map updated. All they could hear were incoherent calls for assistance. The strategic reserves, thirty kilometers behind the lines and untouched, withdrew without orders and wouldn’t respond to repeated calls.

Literally shrieking, his pistol drawn, General Reza Davoud moved erratically around the room demanding someone do something, anything, to stop the rout. The air force liaison quietly slipped out of the building. One captain tried to explain that there was nothing they could do until the formations stopped running again. The commander shot him in the chest, twice.

Davoud’s tirade only stopped when a section of the wall next to the situation map exploded inward, showering those nearby with shards of cinder block and wood. The general was sprinting through the dust-filled air for the door and safety before anyone else even regained their feet.

* * *

Near Iranian Army Davoud HQ

1 April, Year 10, 12:50 pm

The attack had slowed almost immediately. His GOGs had plowed forward, driving through hundreds of soldiers by dint of firepower and fear, but they hadn’t been quick enough. Iranian units were converging on them from all sides. His third line now faced backward and was as heavily engaged as the first. They’d left hundreds of enemy casualties and seven more craters behind them.

General Timo Sheen looked at the clock on his HUD, worried. They had to stop Davoud from rallying his army, and they had to do it soon, or it would be too late. If the enemy stopped retreating, his still outnumbered Peshmerga would find themselves in an open field battle with an army three times their size.

The problem was that they were stalled. Even twenty kilometers behind the front, Davoud had surrounded himself with an entire battalion of Guard Infantry supported by a dozen heavy machine guns dug in around the building. They were crouched down half a kilometer short of their target and behind the last small rise. Only a meter over his head flowed a steady stream of .30- and .50-caliber rounds interlaced with tracers. A mortar round splashed nearby, showering him with pebbles and shards of clay.

Yet they couldn’t just charge over those last five hundred meters. Even a GOG couldn’t survive the weight of fire they faced long enough to reach the tantalizingly close building. They were running short of ammunition, and half his GOGs had expended their grenades. Slowly it dawned on Timo that he’d failed. All the deaths, the sacrifices, and months of planning were wasted. Because of him, his people, his great family, would be destroyed and enslaved.

A feeling of helplessness and despair poured over him. The darkness of loss he’d fought so hard to suppress flooded back. For a long minute he couldn’t even think. His vision narrowed, and he just felt tired. Then came the anger. A man inside that building had ordered the deaths of his wife and son and, despite many mistakes, would soon be a victorious hero. The sheer horror of it all was too much. Timo simply snapped. He’d wanted death, and he would give it meaning. He stood, raging loudly, and even though he knew the effective range of the tank-killing railgun was only three hundred meters, he froze and fired the metal rod at the large, pastel building.

For seconds after firing, his GOG remained frozen. A dozen heavy rounds pummeled his GOG, pushing him back down. One penetrated, and he could feel blood inside his suit, but the angry commander had stood long enough to see the depleted uranium rod strike the building and penetrate.

As he fell back, Timo realized he was acting like a fool. Revenge had blinded him. He wore a GOG now. There was no need to storm into the HQ and start shooting. His hate had made him want to confront Davoud personally. They needed to win more than he needed revenge.

Out of instinct, they’d been pushing forward slowly to get to the range at which their weapon could penetrate the side armor of an AFV. In a moment of clarity, the general realized the HQ in front of them wasn’t made of hardened steel, just cinderblock and plaster.

Ignoring his wound, the general took less than a minute to explain what must be done. He knew they’d lose some more GOGs—maybe even him—but the Republic would win.

On his signal, the 51 forward-facing GOGs stood and froze. The heavy machine guns found their targets within seconds, but by then, every armored Peshmerga had launched their railgun rods into the first floor of the HQ building.

Entire sections of the former resort’s walls bulged inward and collapsed. Dust and smoke poured from every window. Structurally compromised, the remaining first floor walls were pushed outward by the weight of the intact second floor until they gave way and collapsed loudly onto the floor below.

The GOGs’ cheering roared in his helmet. Timo was more relieved than elated. It was hard to watch through his tears as the surrounding garrison, so daunting seconds earlier, took one look at the destroyed HQ and fled.

“Never again,” he finally managed to mumble over the command band.

* * *

Inside the Ruins of Army Davoud HQ

Timo was sure that at least a few of his ribs were broken. The bleeding had stopped, and he was afraid to remove his GOG. Almost half the surviving 74 GOGs sheltering in the broken building with him were wounded, or their suits had failed. The last of the GOGs had hunkered down in the collapsed hotel, and those capable of combat faced outward. They’d held for four hours, and the general found himself growing frantic with worry. Tens of thousands of Iranians were riding, walking, and sometimes running past their position.

Timo ordered them not to interfere. Their own ammunition was so low that after a few minutes, they’d be fighting hand to hand. If only one of the many fleeing Iranian formations chose to attack, it would be over. He could picture them swarmed over by hundreds of soldiers, pulling them down and tearing off their armor. The irony that they might die in the last hours of a war they had won screamed at him. After days of extreme violence, they just waited crouching down behind broken walls hoping for relief. Three of their wounded died waiting. All agreed cratering would have to wait.

It had taken three more hours, and a lot of pain, but Timo was willing to accept that he might survive. They just had to hold on a little longer. The situation maps he got from an elated Gokalp showed the entire Iranian army retreating under constant pressure from the Peshmerga and aerial bombardment. Tens of thousands had already surrendered, so many that there were no Peshmerga to guard them. Most mumbled about demons and were no problem.

As the hours passed, he’d watched as the retreat became a rout. At first, those who’d passed by the GOGs’ position appeared to be intact formations, often riding in trucks and APCs. They’d worried Timo, but none of them bothered to stop, and he made sure his GOGs didn’t fire on them. Within an hour, that changed. There were fewer trucks, and the units that were still intact seemed smaller and less well armed. They were far outnumbered by obvious stragglers, nearly all unarmed. By the time the third hour had passed, they were watching mobs of men pushing and shoving their way south with no real order. If there were any officers among them, you couldn’t tell by their actions.

Videos from Colonel Azi and the 1st Armored Battalion were even more heartening. His tanks were finding no resistance at all. Iranian soldiers continued surrendering to them by the thousands.

Then, just as he dared to hope and think they might survive, everything changed.

The sound of approaching heavy tanks was unmistakable. Timo roused himself and put all his effective GOGs behind the shattered walls. He remembered the massive Iranian tank camp they’d stung then fled from the day before. Dozens of armored vehicles had remained intact. It made sense that they’d be covering their army’s retreat. They’d want revenge.

The young general used the wall to pull himself upright. He had six rounds, no grenades, and one rod left. The left arm of his GOG whined and only moved slowly. He looked around at the handful of GOGs forming a line to his side. His GOGs, ready to fight once more against impossible odds. The only sound on the general channel was quiet breathing. As he leaned back against the round cinderblocks and used them to straighten, Timo Sheen found he had no fear left, just sadness that the brave Peshmerga with him deserved a better fate. Then as if something had broken free, Timo Sheen realized he wanted to live.

“Let them get close, then use every rod to disable those T90s,” Timo tried to speak firmly, but each word and breath hurt. Still, the young Peshmerga general pulled himself as tall as he could. Their sacrifice would be worth it. His depression, his guilt had melted away, replaced by a cold determination to protect his nation, his people. It was a need that filled him, warmed the cold corners of a tortured soul, and gave meaning to all the death and pain he’d seen and ordered others to endure. Timo Sheen found what his soul needed—a driving and overwhelming purpose. He’d never again allow anyone to threaten, to endanger, his people.

Between the dust and swarms of retreating Iranian soldiers, it was hard to see the first tanks as they approached. Breathing deeply and feeling another sharp pain from his broken ribs at the effort, the young general struggled to aim his last railgun rod toward the massive AFV. The world seemed to blur, and return to focus, only to blur and return again. Timo wanted to say something inspiring to his remaining GOGs, but he couldn’t find any more words. He recalled the image of dozens of Iranian tanks in the laager that had remained intact the night before. Now they’d pay for not pressing them harder then.

“General, if you shoot me after we raced for three hours to relieve you, I’ll be most annoyed,” Colonel Azi’s voice announced inside his helmet. The incoming message image on Timo’s HUD covered his view of the shattered terrain outside the ruins with an Abrams’ targeting camera image of him leaning against a section of the broken wall with his right arm resting on the shattered door frame.

“General Sheen, we won. You won.” The armored commander was excited, almost cheering as he jumped out of his Abrams and rushed toward Timo. “No resistance left. Tang will be here as soon as we can clear a landing zone.” Then he looked around at the last few Iranian infantry fleeing past and grinned. Placing his hand on Timo’s GOG’s shoulder, he said it again softly.

“We won.”

* * * * *

Epilogue

It was just before noon when Supreme General Reza Davoud walked through the massive, brass-covered doors of the Iranian National Command Center. The center was a massive fifty-by-fifty-meter open room two stories high. The walls, perhaps five meters up, were lined with glass-faced offices opening to a walkway. The railings, stairs, and fixtures were brass, and the walls desert yellow. On the walls between the second level offices, excerpts from the Koran were inscribed in red. Covering the length of the walls on the ground floor was a seemingly random mixture of maps and video screens. There were no windows, and the lighting was the harsh white of industrial-grade fluorescent bulbs.

Because of the open layout, the over one hundred officers and enlisted men on duty that morning could all see him enter. Conversations stopped, and every one of the soldiers stared in silence at the general. He seemed not to notice. The morning before, Reza Davoud had been abruptly escorted out by members of the ayatollah’s personal guard. No one had spoken of the general or his expected fate since. They knew every word and action taking place in the command center was recorded by the dozens of small video cameras on the walls and reviewed daily by the paranoid mullah’s security service.

The expressions on the faces of those watching General Davoud enter the room ranged from surprised disgust to astonished joy. Most simply looked amazed, and all wondered how he had escaped the normal fate of failed officers after leading their army to disaster against the Kurds.

Reza Davoud stopped just inside the door and scanned the room with a fierce expression. Virtually everyone looked away, suddenly finding important business elsewhere. Few even noticed when the general’s son, Mazdak, slunk guiltily in the door behind his father and, eyes down and shoulders sagged, followed him across the floor.

Both Davouds carefully avoided looking at the many maps which showed the location and status of every battalion in the Iranian army and IRG. Neither wanted to deal again with what they showed. Almost a third of the unit markers now had a red flag on them, showing they no longer existed. Most of the vaunted Republican Guard units were marked with red. There were no Iranian military units within ninety kilometers of the former border. That area was now effectively ceded to the Kurds. The majority of the surviving army and air force units were bunched in the lower half of the country. Everyone in the room knew that between losses and rampant desertion, most of those, too, were at half strength or less. The four naval bases, even though they were hundreds of miles from the lost battle, were marked yellow, again suffering from desertions. Using the regular military to control an increasingly restive population was taking a toll even beyond that caused by defeat and dismal morale.

As the general approached his office, the only one on the first floor, he turned to a captain just outside his door and barked, “My colonels in five minutes.” The officer hurried to notify the eight colonels who had been handpicked by Davoud for loyalty to him and their political connections. A few were even fairly competent.

When his colonels had gathered at the long table on one side of Reza Davoud’s richly appointed office, the general stood and gestured for his son to join him at the head of the table.

“Our leaders,” he explained, “have given me the honor of reorganizing our military and searching out those who failed us.” His voice rose at the end, as if asking for applause.

It was indicative that even the men most loyal to Reza Davoud nodded gently and did not meet his eyes, not reacting at all as he blamed others for his own failure. Disappointed in their lack of response, the Iranian supreme commander continued, gesturing to his son who stood at his side and was avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Mazdak, the hero of the rear guard,” he said, letting them know how the histories—at least in Iran—would read, “is to take over as commander of our strategic forces.”

That caused several of the colonels to look up and study the still self-conscious looking young man. Strategic forces were Iran’s limited number of expensively and painfully developed nuclear bombs, and the missiles that could deliver them.

“The recent setbacks will be lost to history as we all walk victoriously through Kirkuk in just a few weeks… or at least as close as the radiation allows us to get.”

Outside the door to the general’s office, the always dependable and subservient captain listened. He did so by simply leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes widened, and his hands clenched as Davoud spoke.

In a loud voice, the Iranian commander finished, his arms thrown wide, with the beginnings of a smile.

“I… Iran, will be avenged.”

Even as the older Davoud spoke those final words, the captain, visibly pale, grabbed a few papers out of a file cabinet and hurried from the command center.

# # # # #

About the Author

After writing for the early issues of Dragon Magazine in the 1970s, Bill became one of the founders of, and the lead designer for, Mayfair Games. He has continued his board and electronic game design work on a number of RPGs and PC games. His first books were chosen path novels for TSR in the early days of D&D. His first fantasy series was Lord of Cragsclaw in the 1980s.

Bill’s historical “Mistakes” series includes It Seemed Like a Good Idea, It Looked Good on Paper, You Did What, How To Lose A Battle, How To Lose a War, How To Lose WWII, How To Lose a War at Sea, and How To Lose the American Civil War. Among his non-fiction books are Oval Office Oddities, 100 Mistakes that Changed History, 100 Leadership Mistakes that Changed History, and 101 Stumbles in the March of History.

As an author, Bill has written or co-authored over a dozen fiction books plus close to fifty articles and short stories. Bill collaborated on several mystery novels with Chelsea Quinn Yarbro including the Authorized Mycroft Holmes novels. He interviewed for and edited two oral histories of the US Navy SEALs Hunters and Shooters and The Teams. As an anthologist Bill has edited or co-edited over 40 SF anthologies. Bill Fawcett & Associates has packaged over 400 science fiction, fantasy, military, non-fiction, and licensed books for major publishers.

* * * * *

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The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of Ashes of Entecea:

The Queen’s Fixer

___________________

Kacey Ezell

Now Available from Theogony Books
eBook and Paperback

Excerpt from “The Queen’s Fixer:”

“Laeth?”

Zan’s voice pulled her from her self-examination, and Laethine shook her head. “I’m coming,” she said as she looked for the shoulder straps of the bag. She closed the cargo flap but didn’t hit the compression command, since she’d need to add Zan’s planetside garb first. She opened the compartment that held the bag’s straps and pulled them out, then noticed a folded piece of paper as it fluttered to the floor.

She froze as adrenaline surged through her. Her mouth went suddenly dry, and she bent slowly to pick it up.

No one uses paper in orbit! What under the stars…?

There was only one way to find out. With her heart pounding in her ears, Laethine fumbled with the paper until it opened in her hands. It was incredibly thin—translucent, even—but she could make out the wispy marks of a hand-lettered message.

“The torch is yours, Fixer. The Hierophant follows. Be on the next line leaving dock 459A within the hour. Your time is short. We’ll be in touch. Eat this. No fire in space.”

Electricity jolted through Laethine, bringing forth a memory she’d forgotten. She and Previn had been discussing his obsession with written messages. She’d laughingly asked him what he did when in orbit because he certainly couldn’t be burning papers in the oxygenated environment aboard a ship or station. He’d looked at her and quietly replied that paper could be constructed of many materials, some of them edible.

She turned the thin scrap over in her hand. Was it genuine? Was this a trick? Was this an elaborate attempt to trick her? Was the paper poisoned?

Laethine couldn’t help it, she let out a short, dry laugh. Her paranoia threatened to run out of control. If this was an attempt to poison her, it was certainly an excessively elaborate ruse. It would be so much easier just to sneak something into her food! Besides, there were messages within messages encoded here.

The torch is yours…

That last letter from Previn had mentioned the passing of torches. When she was first married, Previn had often spoken of her inheritance of Antiroc as “passing the torch,” but she’d never heard anyone else use the expression. She’d asked him what a “torch” was. It turned out to be something like a club that had a flammable material attached to one end, so it could be carried as a portable source of light and heat. Some of the populace of Antiroc used them from time to time when they worked in the remotest mountain areas, where sustained technology was hard to come by or undesirable for one reason or another.

That had to be a code, didn’t it? A message designed to signal her that this note was legitimate? That it was truly from Previn’s information network?

“Gah!” Laethine growled. She hated this. She’d always enjoyed Previn’s thought puzzles when he’d posed them, but those were always just theoretical exercises! If she got this wrong, people could be hurt… even die!

“Laeth? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she called back. “Just putting everything away. I’ll be right out.” She looked down at the paper in her hand and then shrugged and touched it to her tongue.

It tasted sweet, as if she’d just eaten a spoonful of honey. The paper thinned and dissolved, leaving nothing but a sticky residue on her fingers. She rubbed her fingertips together and then wiped them clean on the side of her pants and picked up the bag before stepping out of the small room.

Zan waited for her, a tentative smile on his face. The dark green modular jumpsuit fit him well, conforming to his wide shoulders and tapering down to his narrow waist and hips. Laeth gave him an approving nod.

“Feel comfortable enough?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m a little surprised at how well it fits.”

“That’s the beauty of the modular system. Also, you’re pretty close to their standard sizes, if I had to guess. If you were taller or broader, you’d have more problems. Give me your other clothes. I’ll put them in here, and then we need to hurry.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said and gave him a level look.

“Oh… um… later?” he asked, his smile fading.

“Later,” she said and answered with her own smile. It was hard to blame the young man for his curiosity. He’d been raised to ask such questions, after all, and it was good for a future ruler to want to stay informed. But right now, she just needed his cooperation.

Zan handed her his folded clothes, and Laethine added them to her bag, then closed the flap and toggled the compression control. The bag let out a faint whirr as the internal vacuum system pulled out the excess air and compressed the whole package down to a flat shape that could easily be worn under a jacket. Laethine put her arms through the shoulder straps, shrugged the bag into place, and then looked at Zan.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

Get “The Queen’s Fixer” now at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CYHB5QPB.

Find out more about Kacey Ezell at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com.

* * * * *

The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of The Last Marines:

Gods of War

___________________

William S. Frisbee, Jr.

Available now from Theogony Books

eBook, Audio, and Paperback

Excerpt from “Gods of War:”

“Yes, sir,” Mathison said. Sometimes it was worth arguing, sometimes it wasn’t. Stevenson wasn’t a butter bar. He was a veteran from a line infantry platoon that had made it through Critical Skills Operator School and earned his Raider pin. He was also on the short list for captain. Major Beckett might pin the railroad tracks on Stevenson’s collar before they left for space.

“Well, enough chatting,” Stevenson said, the smile in his voice grating on Mathison’s nerves. “Gotta go check our boys.”

“Yes, sir,” Mathison said, and later he would check on the men while the lieutenant rested. “Please keep your head down, sir. Don’t leave me in charge of this cluster fuck. I would be tempted to tell that company commander to go fuck a duck.”

“No, you won’t. You will do your job and take care of our Marines, but I’ll keep my head down,” Stevenson said. “Asian socialists aren’t good enough to kill me. It’s going to have to be some green alien bastard that kills me.”

“Yes, sir,” Mathison said as the lieutenant tapped on Jennings’ shoulder and pointed up. The lance corporal understood and cupped his hands together to boost the lieutenant out of the hole. He launched the lieutenant out of the hole and went back to digging as Mathison went back to looking at the spy eyes scrutinizing the distant jungle.

A shot rang out. On Mathison’s heads-up display, the icon for Lieutenant Stevenson flashed and went red, indicating death.

“You are now acting platoon commander,” Freya reported.

* * * * *

Get “Gods of War” here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B5WJB2MY.

Find out more about William S. Frisbee, Jr. at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com.

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The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of The Prince of Britannia Saga:

The Prince Awakens

___________________

Fred Hughes

Available now from Theogony Books

eBook, Paperback, and Audio

Excerpt from “The Prince Awakens:”

Sixth Fleet was in chaos. Fortunately, all the heavy units were deployed forward toward the attacking fleet and were directing all the defensive fire they had downrange at the enemy. More than thirteen thousand Swarm attack ships were bearing down on a fleet of twenty-six heavy escorts and the single monitor. The monitor crew had faith in their shields and guns, but could they survive against this many? They would soon find out.

Luckily, they didn’t have to face all the Swarm ships. Historically, Swarm forces engaged major threats first, then went after the escorts. Which was why the monitor had to be considered the biggest threat in the battle.

Then the Swarm forces deviated from their usual pattern. The Imperial plan was suddenly irrelevant as the Swarm attack ships divided into fifteen groups and attacked the escorts, which didn’t last long. When the last dreadnought died in a nuclear fireball, the Swarm attack ships turned and moved toward the next fleet in the column, Fourth Fleet, leaving the monitor behind.

The entire plan was in shambles. But, more importantly, the whole fleet was at risk of being defeated. The admiral’s only option now was to save as many as he could.

“Signal to the Third, Fifth, and Seventh Fleets. The monitors are to execute Withdrawal Plan Beta.”

The huge monitors had eight fleet tugs that were magnetically attached to the hull when not in use. Together, the eight tugs could get the monitors into hyperspace. However, this process took time, due to the time it took for the eight tugs to generate a warp field large enough to encompass the enormous ship. It could take up to an hour to accomplish, and they didn’t have an hour.

Plan Bravo would use six heavy cruisers to accomplish the same thing. The cruisers’ larger fusion engines meant the field could be generated within ten minutes, assuming no one was shooting at them. “The remaining fleet units will move to join First Fleet. Admiral Mason in First Fleet will take command of the combined force and deploy it for combat.”

The fleet admiral continued giving orders.

“I want Second Fleet to do the same, but I want heavy cruiser Squadron Twenty-Three to merge with First Fleet. Admiral Conyers, I want you to coordinate with the Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Fleets. I want their monitors to perform a normal Alpha Withdrawal. As they’re preparing to do that, have their escorts combine into a single fleet. Figure out which admiral is senior and assign him local command to organize them.” He pointed at the single icon indicating the only ship left in Sixth Fleet. “Signal Prometheus to move at best speed to join First Fleet. That covers everything for now. I fear there’s not much we can do for Fourth Fleet.”

The icons were already moving on the tactical display as orders were transmitted and implemented.

“I’ve given the fleets in the planet’s orbit their orders, Admiral,” the chief of staff informed him. “The other fleets are on the move now. The Swarm should contact Fourth Fleet in approximately ten minutes. Based on their attack of Sixth Fleet, the battle will last about twenty minutes. With fifteen minutes for them to reorganize and travel to First Fleet, we’re looking at forty-five minutes to engagement with the Swarm.”

“What are the estimates on the rest of the fleets moving to join up with First?”

“Twenty minutes, Admiral. However, Prometheus is going to take at least forty-five and will arrive about the same time as the enemy.”

“Organize six heavies from Seventh Fleet and have them coordinate a rendezvous with Prometheus, earliest possible timing,” the admiral ordered. “Then execute a Beta jump. Unless the Swarm forces divert, they should have enough time. Then find out how many ships have the upgraded forty-millimeter rail gun systems and form them into a single force. O’Riley said that converting the guns to barrage fire was a simple program update. Brevet Commodore O’Riley will be in command of the newly created Task Force Twenty-Three. They are to form a wall of steel which the fleet will form behind. I am not sure if we can win this, but we need to bleed these bastards if we can’t. If they win, they’ll still have to make up those losses, and that will delay the next attack.”

* * * * *

Get “The Prince Awakens” here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BK232YT2.

Find out more about Fred Hughes at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com.

* * * * *

The following is an

Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle:

Cartwright’s Cavaliers

___________________

Mark Wandrey

Available Now from Seventh Seal Press
eBook, Paperback, and Audio

Excerpt from “Cartwright’s Cavaliers:”

The last two operational tanks were trapped on their chosen path. Faced with destroyed vehicles front and back, they cut sideways to the edge of the dry river bed they’d been moving along and found several large boulders to maneuver around that allowed them to present a hull-down defensive position. Their troopers rallied on that position. It was starting to look like they’d dig in when Phoenix 1 screamed over and strafed them with dual streams of railgun rounds. A split second later, Phoenix 2 followed on a parallel path. Jim was just cheering the air attack when he saw it. The sixth damned tank, and it was a heavy.

“I got that last tank,” Jim said over the command net.

“Observe and stand by,” Murdock said.

“We’ll have these in hand shortly,” Buddha agreed, his transmission interspersed with the thudding of his CASPer firing its magnet accelerator. “We can be there in a few minutes.”

Jim examined his battlespace. The tank was massive. It had to be one of the fusion-powered beasts he’d read about. Which meant shields and energy weapons. It was heading down the same gap the APC had taken, so it was heading toward Second Squad, and fast.

“Shit,” he said.

“Jim,” Hargrave said, “we’re in position. What are you doing?”

“Leading,” Jim said as he jumped out from the rock wall.

* * * * *

Find out more about Mark Wandrey and “Cartwright’s Cavaliers,” and get it at: https://chriskennedypublishing.com/imprints-authors/mark-wandrey/cartwrights-cavaliers-revelations-cycle/.

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