by Dale Brown
“It just doesn’t seem likely we’d ever be able to justify that kind of expense, Patrick.”
“Here’s how, sir: One engagement could destroy a single multiple-warhead ballistic missile, saving as many as twelve cities or military bases from annihilation,” Patrick explained. “A single laser shot could destroy a fifty-million-dollar bomber or a hundred-million-dollar spy satellite. I don’t like focusing on the numbers, sir, because they usually tell only part of the story, but in this case, the numbers show that the Dragon is a superb force-multiplying combat system.”
“Most of Congress can’t get past the purchase price, let alone the cost per sortie,” Secretary of Defense Goff said. “And when they realize they’re paying a billion dollars for a plane that was probably built before most of them were born—let me just say it’s a very tough sell.”
“I’d be happy to help try to make the sale, sir,” Patrick said. “We can dazzle them.”
“Well, dazzle us first before you go volunteering to take on Congress,” Goff said.
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said enthusiastically.
There was an odd assortment of other aircraft in the underground parking ramp: C-130 Hercules transports with weird, winglike spy antennae attached to various parts of the fuselage, wings, and stabilizers; huge helicopters with an assortment of radomes and sensor turrets on the nose; and two transport planes that had engines attached to their short, stubby wingtips. “Okay, stop,” Robert Goff said. “I recognize the Commando Solo C-130 psyops plane and the MH-53 Pave Low special-ops helicopter, but what in the heck are those?”
“We call it the MV-32 Pave Dasher—our modification of the CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft,” Patrick explained. “The standard V-22 has turboprops. This one uses fanjet engines that swivel on the wingtips to provide vertical flight as well as high-speed forward flight. The fanjets give it much more lifting power as well as twice the forward speed of the Osprey. The MV-32 Pave Dasher can insert six Battle Force teams—twenty-four heavily armed combat troops—about two thousand miles, or farther with aerial refueling.”
“I don’t recall those planes being authorized or funded,” Goff pointed out. He noticed Patrick’s expression. “I see—another of your freelance, no-cost acquisitions. From Sky Masters Inc., I suppose?”
“One of their development partners, yes, sir.”
“McLanahan’s private little air force again, eh, General?” President Thorn asked.
They continued through a series of wide corridors cut out of the rock and stopped at a set of large steel doors on immense hinges, reminiscent of the huge, vaultlike doors at the entrance to the North American Aerospace Defense Command’s underground command center at Cheyenne Mountain. The doors looked tired and gray, definitely old—but inside, the large room looked modern and well lit, like a brand-new auditorium or theater.
Brigadier General David Luger, Colonel John Long, Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl were lined up in front of the stage inside the auditorium, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “Mr. President, Miss Secretary, Mr. Secretary, I’d like to introduce you to the rest of the command here.” Thorn, Hershel, and Goff stepped over to where the others were waiting. “I’d like to introduce you to my second in command, Brigadier General David Luger.”
The VIPs shook hands with Luger. “It’s an honor to meet you, General,” Robert Goff said. He looked at Luger solemnly, glanced at Patrick, then added, “The last two surviving members of the Old Dog crew. Two living legends. I’m glad to have you both around.”
David Luger, tall and lanky and towering over Goff, looked bowed as he realized that it was true: There were only two of the original six crew members of the first “Old Dog” mission left. “It’s good to be here, sir,” he said.
“This is Brigadier General Rebecca Furness, commander of the One-eleventh Attack Wing; Colonel John Long, the operations-group commander; Colonel Daren Mace, commander of the Fifty-first Attack Squadron with the EB-1C Vampires; and Lieutenant Colonel Nancy Cheshire, commander of the Fifty-second Attack Squadron with the EB-52 Megafortresses and the AL-52 Dragons.”
“The first female combat pilot—another living legend. Nice to meet you, Rebecca,” Goff said, shaking Rebecca’s hand enthusiastically. He shook Long’s hand but did not address him—obviously an astute judge of character, Patrick thought. “Nice to see you again, Daren,” Goff said, shaking Daren’s hand warmly. “I was pleased with the work you did out at Beale.”
“Thank you, sir,” Daren replied.
“I hope you’ll find a home out here—” Goff said. He paused, glanced at McLanahan, then added, “If they haven’t scared you too much already.”
“That may be possible to do, sir, but not yet.”
“Colonel, I’m looking forward to seeing what your airborne-laser aircraft are capable of,” Goff said, shaking Nancy’s hand. Nancy Cheshire was tall, athletic bordering on muscular, with strawberry-blond hair, shining green eyes, and an ever-present smile. She was the senior test pilot in the experimental B-52 bombers at Dreamland, accepting her first operational command to get the chance to keep on flying her beloved super-B-52s and work with Patrick McLanahan.
“Finally,” Patrick went on, “Colonel Hal Briggs and Sergeant Major Chris Wohl, Air Battle Force ground operations.”
Maureen Hershel stared at Chris Wohl in wonderment. Hal was wearing his Air Force Class-A blue uniform, but Chris Wohl was wearing a strange black outfit that resembled high-tech scuba diver’s gear, with a thin backpack, thick boots and belt, and tubes running along the arms and legs. “What in the world is this?” she asked, touching the strange material.
“It’s called BERP—Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, ma’am,” Hal Briggs replied. “Electronic armor. It responds to being sharply struck by instantly hardening into an almost impenetrable protective shield that can withstand attack by up to thirty-seven-millimeter cannon shells. The tubes you see outside the armor are part of the powered exoskeleton, which uses microhydraulic actuators to activate the armor and enhance the wearer’s strength. These electrodes on the shoulders emit directional bursts of electrical energy out as far as fifty feet, which can paralyze an attacker. The boots contain a gas thruster system that can help the wearer jump several hundred feet. The backpack contains a power-generating and rechargeable-battery system, plus worldwide communications and sensor equipment. This is what the well-dressed commando will be wearing this century.”
“They call themselves the Tin Men, Maureen,” Goff said, shaking hands with Briggs and Wohl. His voice was filled with tension and seriousness, but his handshake and eyes were friendly. “They’ve proven themselves extraordinarily effective in many different scenarios, but they’ve also given us a lot of headaches since we’ve taken office. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
“That’s one of our specialties, sir,” Hal Briggs said. “We aim to please.”
“I for one don’t think it’s funny, Colonel,” President Thorn said. “You successfully dragged the United States into a shooting war with Russia and nearly got us into a shooting war with Libya—all for a few lousy dollars. If it weren’t for General McLanahan’s interceding on your behalf, you’d all be in prison right now.” Briggs and Wohl said nothing but remained at parade rest, eyes caged forward. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“I’m happy to have the opportunity to create some havoc for you now, sir,” Briggs said.
“Same here, sir,” Wohl chimed in.
Thorn looked Wohl up and down. “I was a commando, too, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I spent a month crawling on my belly in Iraq before and during Desert Storm with nothing but a laser designator and a bad attitude. But not once in all the battles and all the shit we took did I ever consider turning my back on my country or the Army.”
He stared both Wohl and Briggs in the eyes, his chin jutting out, his jaw clenched. “You left the Corps and fought for an outlaw organization,” he
went on angrily. “Both of you renounced your oaths and went to work for what I believe was a criminal organization—a group that stole money, committed murder and mayhem, and absconded with government property. You nearly caused a world war with your antics. You didn’t deserve to come back into the country, let alone come back into the U.S. armed forces and get a promotion.”
“You gave my men and me full exoneration and full restoration of our rank and privileges, sir. . . .” Patrick interjected.
“That’s right—I gave your ranks back to you,” Thorn said heatedly. “I gave them back because you acquitted yourselves with honor in Libya. But you haven’t won the right to think you’re some kind of bad-ass fighting men now.” Thorn turned and saw Wohl glaring at him. He turned and faced the big Marine nose-to-nose. “You have something to say to me, Sergeant Major?”
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. His eyes remained caged, not looking directly at the president’s. “But I choose not to say it.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant Major,” Thorn pressed. “You have permission to speak freely. Tell us why you chose to leave your post without being properly relieved, and why you think you deserve to come back into my country’s armed forces—instead of spending the rest of your life in prison.”
Wohl’s eyes angrily snapped over to Thorn’s. That was the reaction Thorn was waiting for.
“Go ahead, Sergeant Major, say it,” Thorn goaded him. “Give me a reason to toss your ass in Leavenworth, where it belongs.”
Wohl wisely, thankfully remained silent.
“You assassinated Pavel Kazakov in Iceland, didn’t you, you murderous son of a bitch?” Thorn asked in a low, ominous voice.
“Excuse me, sir—” Hal Briggs interjected.
“Shut up, Colonel,” Thorn ordered. “I haven’t even started with you yet.” He turned again to Wohl. “You’re a wild dog, Wohl.” He jabbed at Wohl’s chest and was surprised when the material he thought was fabric felt as hard as titanium—he could have all his Secret Service agents nearby, he realized ruefully, and they wouldn’t be able to stop this guy. That made him a little nervous—no, it made him a lot scared—but he knew he couldn’t dare let that show, so he pressed on. “There’s an Interpol warrant for your arrest for Kazakov’s murder, did you know that? He was under United Nations protection. You cut his head off, didn’t you? Whose idea was it to kill Kazakov? Yours or Briggs’s?” Still no response. “Answer me!”
“My men prefer to do their talking on the battlefield, Mr. President,” Patrick McLanahan said forcefully, quickly interjecting his voice between them—he could practically feel the heat from Wohl’s temples as his anger mounted. No one, not even the president of the United States, would be allowed to get into Chris Wohl’s face unscathed for very long. “Sergeant Major Wohl isn’t a debater. He follows orders, leads men into battle, and kills with extraordinary efficiency.”
Thorn looked into Wohl’s eyes and instantly believed what Patrick was telling him.
“If you’d like a briefing on our prior activities and the reasons behind them, sir, I’d be happy to accommodate you at any time.”
“I’m not interested in dog and pony shows, and I’m sure as hell not interested in excuses,” Thorn said. “I’m letting you know that I’m still not convinced that you’re fighting for the United States of America. You have a long way to go before that happens.”
“Sir, we’re ready to demonstrate our capabilities—and our loyalty—anytime, anywhere.”
“That’s why we’re here, General,” Goff said. He waited to see if the president had anything more to say; when Thorn remained silent, Goff said to Patrick, “Okay, Patrick, show us around.”
“Yes, sir. We call this the BATMAN, or Battle Management Center,” Patrick said. They were in a huge room, like an auditorium, complete with tiered seating, a stage, and even three glassed-in balcony sections. Sixteen four-by-three-foot color plasma displays seamlessly hung together on the forward wall above the stage; a few of them were out of order, but the view was still spectacular. “Here in the center are consoles for the commanders and leadership. Behind the commanders are the support staffs, linked together by fiber-optic networks—intelligence, operations, communications, logistics, weather, and manpower. The rear of the tiered section is the virtual-cockpit command center, where teams will be able to control up to six long-range bombers plus a dozen unmanned combat air vehicles or monitor the automated progress of dozens of unmanned aircraft. Up above is the battle staff area; on either side of that are areas for joint forces or civil commanders; and on either side of BATMAN are observer areas, which can be closed off if necessary.”
“When is all this going to be finished, General?” Hershel asked.
“We’re mission-capable now, ma’am,” Patrick replied. “We already have worldwide communications capability here via high-frequency radio, the Internet, secure fiber-optic landline, and secure satellite. All the datalinks aren’t set up yet, but most of the hardware is in place, and it’s just a matter of programming in the links. At this point we’re about at the level where command posts were in the 1980s. In two months we’ll be up to date. In three to six months—with the right funding—we’ll be state-of-the-art, able to control entire squadrons of unmanned aircraft and collect and analyze real-time reconnaissance and intelligence data from all over the world.”
“I’ve seen better, General—I’m not impressed,” Thorn said impatiently. “If I recall correctly, you were tasked only with investigating how your experimental aircraft and weapons could interface with today’s tactical air squadrons. We gave you back all your toys with the idea that they would be merged into other existing combat units on an as-needed basis. It looks to me like you’re building your own military unit here, using General Furness’s planes.”
“That’s inaccurate, sir,” Patrick said. “I don’t control any of these aircraft. The B-1s and KC-135s belong to General Furness; the B-52s belong to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.
“As I understand them, sir, my orders were to discover ways to integrate the EB-52 Megafortress, EB-1C Vampire, AL-52 Dragon, and other weapons, aircraft, satellites, and sensors developed at HAWC with existing forces,” Patrick went on. He knew he was quoting his orders word for word. “I was also given the task of standing up this facility for use as an alternate national military and civil emergency command center and secure evacuation location for the national command authority. I’m ready to brief the National Command Authority at any time on how these weapon systems and this facility can be integrated into the total force structure. I assembled a team of experts on unmanned aircraft development, on my own authority and budget, and I—”
“What you consider ‘your authority’ is highly questionable to me, General,” Thorn interjected. “You must be taking money from other projects and programs to help fund your project—maybe even taking money from General Furness here. Is that what you’re doing, General McLanahan? You are doing flight tests with General Furness’s unmanned B-1 bombers? You want to create an entire wing of robot planes, all controlled from this place?”
Patrick looked over at John Long, who was looking directly at him with a grin on his face. He should’ve expected the rat bastard to drop a dime on him, Patrick thought. “Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “That’s what I’m doing here.”
Rebecca cut in quickly, “Sir, I fully authorized General McLanahan’s use of wing resources for his—”
“I seriously doubt it, General Furness,” Thorn said. “I’ll look into that issue myself.” Thorn and McLanahan stared at each other for a few moments. Then Thorn asked, “So tell me, General—did it work?”
“No, sir,” Patrick replied, “it did not.”
David, Rebecca, Daren, and even John Long looked at McLanahan in surprise. “It didn’t work?” Thorn retorted. “Not at all? Any of it?”
“The tests proved what we already knew about the StealthHawk unmanned combat air vehicle system—it’s a mostly reliable and effective weapon system
,” Patrick elaborated. “Unfortunately, the tests we performed regarding unmanned full-size bomber aircraft being used both as a mothership and as an attack platform were unsuccessful. Although we were able to launch and retrieve a StealthHawk UCAV remotely, we were unable to complete an aerial refueling, which was our main objective.”
Thorn looked at the surprised expressions of the officers before him—something wasn’t quite jibing. He gave them a few heartbeats to speak, perhaps come to McLanahan’s defense . . . but they did not.
“Too bad, General,” he said finally. He wasn’t about to prompt anyone for more information. If they didn’t want to be forthcoming for some reason—meaning, if they didn’t believe in the project enough to back the boss—he certainly wasn’t going to do it for them. “I hope all you’ve wasted is a little jet fuel.”
“I would like to see the full results of your flight tests,” Goff interjected.
“Secretary Goff gave you an assignment recently, General,” the president asked. “Got something for us?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied. “My deputy, General Luger, has the information you requested.”
“Then let’s get started.” They all took seats, and Patrick motioned to David Luger.
“Good morning, Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Miss Deputy Secretary,” Luger began. “Last week, on orders transmitted to the First Air Battle Force from the Joint Chiefs of Staff deputy commander for operations, I was directed by General McLanahan to perform an operational air-battle assessment of the eastern Turkmenistan region, concentrating specifically on recent military maneuvers by a group of insurgents identified by the CIA as the same Taliban fighters we interdicted in Operation Hilltop a couple weeks ago,” Luger said. “An air-battle assessment is a tasking whereby we identify and classify threats in a specific area using our own surveillance assets, combined with national and international sources, and then develop a plan of action to counter the threats. I looked at all threats posed by these insurgents but primarily focused on the threat to U.S. interests—national and civil as well as military—in Central Asia.
