Rogue Forces

“I’m not going to send the Loser over Turkey, Colonel, but I’m not going to let the Turks relax, either,” Patrick said. “I want to see what the Turks have in mind if any aircraft strays too close to the border. We know they’ll hit back hard against any PKK land incursions. What will they do if it starts to look like the United States is poking around on their side of the border too much with aircraft?”

“Think that’s smart, McLanahan? That could ratchet up the tension around here even more.”

“We’ve got a lot of dead troopers in your hangar out there, Colonel,” Patrick reminded him. “I want to be sure the Turks know that we are very, very angry at them right now.”

OVER SOUTHEASTERN TURKEY

THE NEXT EVENING

“Contact, designating target bravo!” the MIM-104 Patriot tactical control officer shouted in Turkish. “I think it’s the same one that’s been popping in and out on us.” The Patriot AN/MPQ-53 radar system belonging to the Turkish army had identified an aircraft and displayed the target to the operators in the Patriot Engagement Control System. The tactical control officer quickly determined that the target was right on the border between Iraq and Turkey, but because it was not in contact with Turkish air traffic controllers and not transmitting any transponder beacon codes, it was considered in violation of the thirty-mile protected Turkish air defense buffer zone; it was too low to be on approach to any airfields in the region and was far off any established civil airways. “Sir, recommend designating target bravo as hostile.”

The tactical director checked the radar display—no doubt about it. “I concur,” he said. “Designate target bravo as hostile, broadcast warning messages on all civil and military emergency and air traffic control frequencies, and stand by to engage.” The tactical director picked up a secure telephone, linked by microwave directly to the sector air defense commander, Fourth Border Defense Regiment, in Diyarbakir. “Kamyan, Kamyan, this is Ustura, I have designated target bravo as hostile, standing by.”

“Ustura, is this the same pop-up target you’ve been watching for the past two hours?” the sector commander inquired.

“We think so, sir,” the tactical director said. “It’s almost certainly a UAV in a reconnaissance orbit, based on speed and flight path. We couldn’t get a firm altitude readout before, but it appears he’s climbed to a higher altitude to get a deeper look north.”

“Civilian traffic?”

“We’ve been broadcasting warning messages every time the target has popped up, and we’re broadcasting now on all civil and military emergency and air traffic control frequencies. No responses at all. Unless the pilot completely switched off his radios, it’s a hostile.”

“I concur,” the air defense commander said. He knew that some air defense sectors in busier areas used multicolored lasers to visually warn pilots away from restricted airspace, but he didn’t have that courtesy—nor did he really care to use it even if he had it. Any innocent pilot stupid enough to fly in this area during this breakout of hostilities deserved to get his ass shot down. “Stand by.” To his communications officer he ordered, “Get me Second Regiment at Nahla, and Ankara.”

“Second Regiment on the line, sir, Major Sabasti.”

That was quick, the sector commander thought—normally direct calls to the American Command and Control Center were filtered and redirected several times before connecting, and it took a few minutes. “Sabasti, this is Kamyan. We don’t show any American air missions in the buffer zone scheduled for tonight. Can you confirm an American flight along the border?”

“I’m looking at the sector map now, sir,” the liaison officer responded, “and the only aircraft in the buffer zone has been precoordinated with you, authorization number Kilo-Juliet-two-three-two-one, operating inside area Peynir.”

“We’re looking at a low-altitude aircraft that pops up and down out of radar coverage. It’s not an American or Iraqi aircraft?”

“I’m showing three American and one Iraqi reconnaissance plane airborne, sir, but only one is in the buffer zone.”

“What is it?”

“Its call sign is Guppy Two-Two, an American reconnaissance aircraft operated by private security contractors.” He read off the aircraft’s coordinates and location of its orbit box—it was exactly as earlier coordinated, inside the Peynir buffer zone but forty miles from the pop-up target.

“What kind of plane is it, Major?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you know I can’t tell you that. I have verified it with my own eyes and I know it’s an unarmed reconnaissance plane.”

“Well, Major, maybe you can tell me what it’s not,” the sector commander said.

“Sir…”

“Who the hell do you work for, Major—the Americans, or Turkey?”

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice interjected. “This is an American interpreter. I work for Mr. Kris Thompson, Thompson Security, Second Regiment, Allied Air Base Nahla, Iraq.”