FIRST:

24 km from the Iranian border

Karabesh Dam, KR

28 December, Year 9 20:00

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

Yet never in all those years, he reflected, had he ever moved with the speed, the grace, with the sheer power as he did within his gog. Power that carried Nisti Khan and him up and over the vertical precipice that stood between the shoulder of 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 the 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 this intervening edifice blocked the 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, scampering up slopes of loose scree that clattered down behind them but didn’t do anything to impede their passage. The tumbling of the 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, in 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 clear and precise through the Gogs’ interconnected com 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. It 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 I/R enhanced view on his faceplate. 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 about 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 ranges they had practiced two days earlier, though the one across the valley sat at extreme range. He felt that the two below them, rotors still spinning, could with a high probability of success be destroyed with 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 was not a question.

The pair started down the slope toward the bridge, moving with a little more caution now to conceal their approach. The dam was perhaps forty meters high on the dry side, and at 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 this is 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 both had learned from Herme Karvan’s accident, and carefully controlled their speed on this steep descent. Their deliberation also prevented the release of a noisy rockslide that would prematurely betray their approach. 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 com 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 snorted. They both knew that their Humvee was parked just out of sight down that road. Their 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, 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 that 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 suggested, eyeing the machine on the far side of the gorge.

“I’ll get closer,” Jaziri said. “When I fire, you take out the two right 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 there were committing sabotage deep into 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 started to hook 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 had 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 own 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 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, repeating the short burst. In short order he cut down all the targeted men, and by that time he was standing in the middle of the bridge, now 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 that 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 have blinded him, normally, but the faceplate’s instantaneous shielding response muted the brightness. He saw details such as the helicopter rotor flying upward, 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 into the hellish explosion. The explosions rang painfully in his ears and the non-com remembered to turn down the volume on his gog. Furious orange light reflected from the frowning cliffs overhead. 

Only then did Jaziri realize he was drawing some 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 impact and was knocked back a step or two, but none of them reached his skin. The liquid pockets of body armored hardened instantaneously when impacted, 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 that Nisti Khan was charging past the two choppers she had destroyed, firing her arm gun as her lithe form virtually danced between the frantic shapes of her confused enemies.

Settling 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 spatter 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 rides home had been completely obliterated—they would 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.

But more shots slapped into him. This time they were from Iranians who had taken cover behind the stone walls that framed the bridge entrance. A round cracked off his faceplate with startling force, and he was not 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 backwards to the end of the bridge where the two helicopters were burning themselves into charred metal. He spotted Nisti Khan to the left—she had obviously raced through the enemy position. The number of bodies suggested she had 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 shamble of bodies and burning choppers that she had 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—and they never saw the second Kurd coming 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.

Others of the 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 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 plain as daylight.

“Above you—left side!” Jaziri barked as a couple of 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 that had 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 to 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 had scampered through the enemy outpost between two burning helicopters.

“Look,” she suddenly interrupted, pointing down the road leading in and out of 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 would dearly love to get their hands on that truck—it’s 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 that 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 round they had 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 started to probe 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 had confirmed that all the raiders were dead, she had 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 will have given the enemy something to think about, when these men don’t come home.”

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

“Never again.”

************************************************************************************

SECOND:

Outside of Kirkuk, Kurdish Republic

Tang Industries Research Center

15 October, Year 9

Tang’s main building was a large, very modern steel and glass tower that dominated the Baba Gurgur ring road on the north side of Kirkuk. Though it was not obviously fortified, the complex was surrounded by a thick hedge and deep ditch that would prevent any suicide vehicle from driving close. The Tang Industries headquarters looked like a very 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 know that those walls were reinforced concrete and 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’s and Timo’s IDs carefully, though they had 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 that 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 high. There were large Kurdish Republic and American Flags hanging behind the reception desk. Timo’s felt a surge of anger at his nation’s enemies, the murderers of his family, threatening to overwhelm him. But, perhaps just 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 and escorted them into the private elevator the way he had done many times before. Timo heard his greeting, but it all seemed unreal, like he really wasn’t part of this world anymore. Less than a minute later the General was emerging 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, somewhat larger than a big human. 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. Heavy gauntlets that formed its hands included five fingers. Boots with impressive tread formed the base of the two legs upon which this 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 “General Ordnance Garment” with the words stacked so the larger first letters lined up, G O G.

“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 a battle. TI has been working on one for the U. S. Army. Fortunately for you, even the United States has just abandoned their efforts.” Tang spread his army expansively gesturing then at the Gog and smiled widely. He couldn’t hide the immense amount of pride in his voice. 

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

Tang smiled and answered, “The power source is no longer an insurmountable problem. We have finally developed a battery that allows a suit like this to function effectively for several hours. And with the American project now abandoned, there is no other military force in the world that will 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 newly minted general replied, logic and reason overpowering the small surge of hope that 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 a half hour or so. Timo sat dully at first in an overstuffed leather armchair, ready for the world to fail him again. Then he realized that Sergeant Jaziri was staring at him, the non-com’s concern, and maybe despair, apparent. He realized that he was forcing himself to stay numb and emotionless. He just wasn’t ready to deal with all the pain and loss. Still, the officer forced himself to use the rest of the time to return to the adjoining room and minutely examine the combat suit, 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 force himself to concentrate, 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 that 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 very 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. This 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 actually shrugged. “We’re close, having dealt with everything but the power question. But back home the order was to stop research and scrap the test units. The whole project has 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 dump.”

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

Hernandez nodded crisply. “Of course, not yet armed, but much of their technology has been around for decades. The problem is that 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 call them, ‘gogs’s, in the field.”

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

“The battery is based on the same technology that powered the railguns,” explained the magnate. “There’s the battery pack—it gets attached to the upper back of 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 a 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 sheets 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 have 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 only in a few places, the American west, China, some very 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 was not a frail man. He was sure there was something that would be as wrong with these Gogs as was 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, a double door 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 Kevin Dockery?” Hernandez announced “On detached duty to DARPA, and now to you.” 

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

The sergeant, obviously proud of the gog suit, then 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 now stood nearly seven feet high. But whatever was on the bottom of the feet made almost no noise as what had to be 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 their 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 400 pounds of mass is, well, 400 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. They activators are thin and long, modelled on muscles themselves. Spread throughout the suit they not only allow smooth movement, but their numbers mean damage to one area cannot disable the full suit. They do vibrate slightly when working.”

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

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

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Hernandez said, and the suited man stopped rotating and stood in an over seven foot high impression 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. These suits might well be a 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 some sort of smart material that can change color when given the right electronic signal,” the sergeant explained. “It will automatically tune 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 very long, ten centimeter wide by one centimeter deep bags. These contained a liquid which hardened only when struck. The result was a very brief period when that part of the suit could not move where hit, but the impact was spread along the bags and into the frame of the suit. The liquid, he added with a smile, had been 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 will protect the wearer from most small arms. “When they’re soft you really didn’t even notice they’re there. Allow me to demonstrate, general, if you would 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 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 his low caliber with the frame absorbing the shock, there are not even the bruises you might expect from a Kevlar vest,” Hernandez added smiling proudly.

Tang took over showing off the weaponry he had 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 was, he explained, a small railgun. It had limited range, but the solid shot fired would penetrate anything short of a tank’s frontal armor. The drawback, he explained, was that it took so much power that each use cut down the battery life by ten minutes and it took about 30 seconds to recharge. To keep from being knocked over the suit locked solid for a several seconds each time it fired. Each suit carried three rounds for the railgun.

The left arm had a smaller and 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 150 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. 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 seemed to pop into his grasp. His 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. And 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 very good accuracy. Sergeant?”

Dockery’s arm snapped forward so quickly it could not be followed. A sharp crack sounded from across the room, and as Timo turned he saw that the unarmed grenade had half buried itself in the cinder block 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 Jaziri said in amazement, “we can just throw rocks.”

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

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

“To me?” Timo was taken a bit back. He felt like he was just emerging from a dark sleep. The urge for revenge reinforcing his need to protect what remained that he loved, his country. He did not realize his voice sounded strong again. But then suddenly Timo could see disaster. “What about the Chiefs?”

“You’re the field commander,” Tang pointed out. “You will be the one to command them.” There was a long pause and then the new general nodded at the industrialist. He was pleased that Timo understood what he meant. They would not even approve expanding their army. Getting the political generals to accept a change like the suits would be near 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, or 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 could not throw that away. Timo did not realize until later that he had just then stood up straighter or how his expression had changed or that even his eyes, normally dark, had become the color of steel.

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

 “I can see that a man wearing this suit will be the pre-eminent soldier on any battlefield,” Timo agreed trying to sound calm and professional. “But he will still be one man. He may make a difference in the course of a firefight. These might be very 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 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 have been ordered to destroy them anyhow.” He added bitterly. “So maybe they get destroyed in a good cause instead? And we delivered all of 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 have been using the plans DARPA sent me three months ago to begin ramping up the local production of key components. With their dies we can begin production within days.”

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

“I have my Israeli subsidiary working on ramping up production on those,” Tang said. “They started on their batteries two months ago. A production line for them in Kirkuk opens next week. We should be able to have a full set of batteries ready for each suit as it arrives. In three weeks, we will 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 are not out of the question.”

“I am 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 would stand a very good chance of winning any war. Including the one that is coming at us soon.”

******************************************************************************

THIRD: 

Twelve kilometers East of the Tigris River

1 April, Year 10 4:02 am

General Sheen and Colonel Kardo had barely moved as they watched the battle progress. More accurately they both 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 concern from his tone of voice when he joined back on.

The strain showed on both faces. The news was not good. A battalion status report appeared in white and yellow letters, appearing to be hovering in the darkness a few feet ahead of them. Three hours into the night, of two hundred and eighty four gogs, they had lost one hundred and eleven. 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 told them. Now they waited for an update on the latest positions of the Guard Armor.

A radio call came through, but not the one they 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 are 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 smiled 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 have all fought valiantly. But if it is to mean something, if we are to save the Republic, I have to order 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 would obey. That is 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 cannot sit idly by.” 

Kardo tried to protest, but Timo pointed out that if the final push failed, both he and the Republic would die at the mullah’s hands.

“But you are 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 did try to grin, but was too nervous to bring that off. “There is 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. That threat of those tanks has to be removed. We are the last reserve. In the next two hours this war will be won, or not. Give us 30 minutes and we will be there to join the sergeant. Then order everyone in.”

Timo was about to call for his escort to gather and realized that they were already listening in on the battalion command channel. When told there would 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 Jaziri was at and they immediately broke into their sliding trot. A few seconds later their general followed, still very worried and a little humbled.

Eight kilometers East of the Tigris River

1 April, Year 10 4:02 am

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 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 then 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 that a rule of thumb was that you take a unit out of the line after ten percent casualties. His gogs had taken almost fifty percent and he was going to ask them for another sacrifice. But needs must. Jaziri had reported that the Guard’s Armor commander he was facing had been gathering in 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 began leaving groups of four gogs every two kilometers. Adding Sergeant Jaziri to the communication, he paused their advance.

“We are going to draw any pursuit past the ridge,” he explained. “Problem is that their tanks are faster than we are. So here is what we can do…” The plan was dangerous, but his gogs were chuckling.

An exhausted sounding Jaziri had only one question, “General, Pink? No way, yellow?” 

*****

Joining the eight other gogs the tanks had unknowingly bypassed, Jaziri, now fully camo’d, 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 began to pour out smoke or have their ammunition explode.

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’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 that the four were the only survivors of the sixteen Peshmerga gogs he had watched march out of the camp.

Checking his sergeant’s vitals Timo could see his blood sugar and oxygen were down, 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 triggered off all communications channels. 

“Old friend,” Timo greeted the man who had long ago trained him when 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 eight percent.”

The three gogs behind must have been listening and they straightened up as if 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 few have now learned better how to fight our suits. And what mistakes to not make again.”

The sergeant smiled weakly.

“I want you and these three gog to get on the first evac chopper. They will be here soon.”

Jaziri started to speak, but Timo cut him off. 

“The knowledge you now have, the tactics and techniques, cannot be lost. There will be more battles. There are so many who would destroy all we love. I need you to go back and teach the teachers what we have paid blood to learn.” The colonel 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”. 

Jazarri 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. While moving an image of Birsin’s body appeared and Timo shuddered. He realized then just how worried he had been about the sergeant. That perhaps he was there, his need to join the fight, had been partially inspired by the desire to personally ensure the man’s survival. Just for a second the young officer almost admitted to himself that he would do whatever it took to not lose any more people he loved and needed.

Turning his communications back on the was an urgent signal from colonel Kardo. As he opened the channel to the gog battalion’s commander, Timo wondered if the officer would grow to resent how he had 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. There was hope in his voice that Timo had not heard for months. Kardo finished, “It will be dawn soon, you had better get off that battlefield before they call in an air strike.”

“If this is to work, I hope they can’t,” Timo responded mysteriously.

“Well we need one bad,” the colonel warned. “I just spoke to General Golkap and the defense line is beginning to crack.” He sighed. “The infantry has done more than anyone can ask. Another push and…” His voice trailing 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.