Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “I’ve already done that. General Houser won’t act on it. I need to speak directly with General Lombardi so he can decide if he wants to increase the air-defense posture.” General Lombardi was the commander of NORAD and the man who could activate all of the defense systems around North America with one order.

  “Maybe you should speak with Air Force or STRATCOM about—”

  This was getting him nowhere. “Colonel Paige, this is extremely urgent, or I wouldn’t have called the NORAD commander’s office directly,” Patrick interjected. “I’m having General Luger of the Air Battle Force transmit his overhead imagery to you and to STRATCOM, but I’m calling to advise you that I believe that a Russian combat air operation is in progress, perhaps an all-out attack against the United States using long-range bombers and cruise missiles.”

  “Is this for real, McLanahan?” Paige asked. “This isn’t how AIA issues alerts to NORAD. You should—”

  “This alert is from the Nine-sixty-sixth Wing, Colonel Paige, not from AIA,” Patrick said. “The information has not been cleared by General Houser. But I decided to contact you directly because I feel there is danger of imminent attack, and when I briefed General Houser a short time ago, he indicated he wasn’t going to act on the information. I decided to take a chance and contact you directly. I am now going to try to contact the secretary of defense and give him this same information. McLanahan, Nine-sixty-sixth Wing, clear.” Before Paige could say anything more, Patrick hung up.

  He had done everything he could with NORAD, Patrick thought. It was up to them if they wanted to act on the information. But even if she didn’t believe him, she would certainly sound the alarm—and an alarm from someplace like NORAD traveled up very, very quickly.

  Patrick was on hold with the deputy chief of staff of Air and Space Operations—the highest person he could reach at the office of the Air Force chief of staff in the Pentagon—when someone knocked on his door and then entered without being invited in. It was Trevor Griffin. Patrick was about to admonish him when he noticed his stony expression. “I’m on the phone with the Pentagon, Tagger.”

  “I know, Patrick,” Griffin said. “The boss knows, too.” Patrick nodded and waved for Griffin to sit, but he didn’t put the phone down. Griffin held up his secure cellular phone, which had a long list of SMS messages already on it. “Cheyenne Mountain called a few moments ago, and just now the chief’s office called. Everybody wants to know what’s going on. All hell is breaking loose. The boss wants you in the battle-staff area, pronto.” He paused for a moment, then said with a serious expression, “Sir, what are you doing? You’re out of control. You gotta stop this.”

  “You’ve seen the pictures and looked over my data, Tagger,” Patrick said. “You know as well as I do how serious this is.”

  “Patrick, it’s all speculation,” Griffin said. “It’s a few buildings erected on bases that haven’t been used in a few years, a bunch of tired old Backfire bombers—nothing earth-shattering about that. What are you—?”

  “Air Battle Force got new images, Tagger—you saw them yourself,” Patrick said. “Yakutsk is wall-to-wall tankers now—dozens of them. Aginskoye, Bratsk, Blagoveshchensk, Ulan-Ude—the Blackjacks and Backfires are massing everywhere. As fast as they’ve appeared, I think they’re going to disappear just as fast—all headed this way.”

  “Patrick, no one believes that,” Griffin said. “No one believes that the Russians would be crazy enough to attack North America. It’s gotta be something else—if there is anything at all.”

  “The target’s not Europe. All the bombers and tankers are in Siberia,” Patrick said. “Unless they’re going after China or Japan, I think the target is the United States.”

  “Why? Why would they attack the U.S.?”

  “Gryzlov—he wants revenge for my attack on Engels, and he wants to kill ten thousand enemy soldiers for every one Russian soldier we kill,” Patrick said. “The guy’s crazy, he’s in charge, and he wants payback.”

  “Patrick, this is nuts,” Griffin breathed. “How in the world are you going to convince anyone of this? They all think that you…well, that you…”

  “That I’m trying to stir up shit, that I’m trying to get back at the guys that took away my command and sent me here,” Patrick said. “I know what they think. But there’s only one thing that matters: We do everything we can to protect the United States of America.” Patrick noticed Griffin’s exasperated expression. “Yeah, I know, I sound like some goody-goody comic-book hero, but that’s what I believe.”

  Patrick heard a series of clicks and a rainburst signal on the phone, and then a voice said, “General McLanahan? Stand by for the chief.” A moment later: “Kuzner here, secure.”

  “General Kuzner, this is General McLanahan, Nine-sixty-sixth Information Warfare Wing, secure. I have a possible situation that requires your immediate attention, sir.”

  “McLanahan, do you have any idea the shit storm you’ve caused over here?” Charles Kuzner, the Air Force chief of staff, responded angrily. “The NORAD Command Center issued a red alert to the Joint Staff Operations Center, telling us that one of the AIA wing commanders warned them that the United States was under attack by Russian bombers. Did that warning come from you?”

  “Yes, sir, it did.”

  “For Christ’s sake, McLanahan…where’s General Houser? Does he even know about any of this?”

  “I briefed General Houser and the AIA staff on the findings from two recent satellite-constellation overflights just minutes ago, sir. He indicated to me that I didn’t have enough actionable information. I disagreed, and I felt that my information needed immediate attention, so I called Air Battle Force and asked them to draw up a plan for ground reconnaissance. It—”

  “Air Battle Force?” Kuzner retorted. “You’re with Air Intelligence Agency, McLanahan, not Air Battle Force! We pulled you out of there specifically to keep shit like this from happening!”

  “Sir, I feel that the information I had needed immediate attention, but I wasn’t going to get it from AIA,” Patrick went on. “The only recourse I had was Air Battle Force.”

  “How about Eighth Air—” And then Kuzner stopped—because he knew about Patrick’s history with Terrill Samson. He didn’t need to mention Air Combat Command either—Thomas Muskoka wasn’t a fan of Patrick’s either.

  “I was informed by General Luger of new data that strongly suggested a massive bomber and tanker mobilization in the Russian far east,” Patrick went on. “His new information confirmed my suspicions. At that point I contacted NORAD and gave them the warning, then contacted Air Force. I—”

  “Hold on,” Kuzner said, and the line went silent. He came back a few moments later. “CJCS wants a briefing later today. You’re going to give it to him. Let’s see if he believes you—because I sure as hell don’t. You report to a videoconference center, hook into the Pentagon comm center, and stand by until they send you over to the Gold Room.” The Joint Chiefs of Staff Conference Room was nicknamed the “Gold Room” because of its décor and because of all the “brass” inside. “I’m calling the Eighth Air Force staff to meet up with Strategic Command at Offutt to discuss the situation. If you’re one second late, mister, I’ll personally go out there and kick your ass all the way back to Washington. Kuzner, clear.” And the connection went dead.

  Patrick got up from his desk and put on his Class A uniform jacket. “This is probably the second command I’ve given up in less than a month—it’s gotta be some sort of record. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dave Luger before I left Air Battle Force, Tagger: Pay attention to what your head and your heart tell you, not what some bureaucrat tells you.”

  “I will, Patrick,” Griffin said, “but you’re not going to lose this command.”

  “I think this time you’re wrong, Tagger,” Patrick said. He opened his wall safe and extracted a red folder marked TOP SECRET. Griffin knew what it was—and he wished Patrick would put it back in the safe where it belonged. “My
last recommendation: Get your ground-recon plan to Kuzner ASAP and press him on it. Get in contact with Dave Luger and Hal Briggs at Air Battle Force for help. They have gadgets and weapons you won’t believe.”

  “We’ll plan this thing together, sir,” Griffin said. “I’ll go with you to the battle-staff area.”

  “Negative. I want you to get your ground-ops plan forwarded to Air Force right away. I want to see it kicked off in eight hours.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of it.” He stuck out a hand. “You haven’t been here long, Patrick, but I already know I’d follow you to hell and back if you asked me to go.” Patrick smiled, shook Griffin’s hand, nodded, and left to report to the battle-staff area for the videoconference.

  Gary Houser showed up moments after Patrick did. Patrick stood at attention as Houser stormed over to him. “I’m getting on a plane in a few hours to report to Strategic Command headquarters to explain what the hell happened here today,” Houser said angrily. “My boss and his senior staff, the entire Strategic Command senior staff, half the senior staff from NORAD, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and undoubtedly the secretary of defense will be grilling me on what you did today. What am I supposed to tell them? I think you’ve flipped out or something. Is that what you think I should tell them?” He stepped toward Patrick until he was almost nose to nose with him. “I just have one question for you, General McLanahan,” Houser said. “What in hell do you want?”

  “Want, sir?”

  “What do you want, McLanahan?” Houser barked, standing just inches from Patrick, leaning down to snarl directly into his face. “Do you really want to be in the Air Force, or do you want to go out in a blaze of glory? Do you want to serve your country, or do you just want to soothe your own bruised and battered ego? Do you want to destroy the careers of those around you, or are you crazy enough to believe that what you’re doing here is the right thing?”

  “Sir…” And then Patrick stopped and locked his eyes on his two-star commander. Houser’s eyes blazed, and a jaw muscle twitched. “Gary, I’m getting sick and tired of putting up with your bullshit.”

  “What in hell did you just say?” Houser shouted.

  “I said, I’m not going to put up with your bullshit anymore,” Patrick repeated. “I gave you information on what could possibly be a major attack against the United States, and all you can do is blow me off. I contacted NORAD and the Pentagon because you’re too full of yourself to do it.”

  “Get the hell out of here, McLanahan, before I—”

  “I’ve been ordered by General Kuzner to brief the Joint Chiefs on the alert I issued NORAD,” Patrick said. “I’m staying. You’re not going to have a chance to weasel out of this.”

  “Weasel out…?”

  “I’m going to give my information to the JCS, Gary, and then you can tell them why you chose to ignore it.”

  Houser shook his head. “You’ve gone off the deep end, McLanahan,” he said. “I always knew you were a loner and a little strange, but now I know you’ve just completely lost it. Your career is over, my friend. Not only have you disobeyed a lawful order, but you have some sort of delusional problem that makes you a danger to the United States in any sort of command position.

  “As soon as this briefing is over, pal, you’re relieved of duty as Nine-sixty-sixth commander. I will prefer charges against you for disobeying a direct order and for insubordination. You will report to your quarters and await the convening of a court-martial. And if I can, I’ll make sure you spend the last remaining years of your career in a military prison camp.”

  “Gary, all you’ve done since I’ve arrived at Lackland is threaten me,” Patrick said. “That’s not leadership—that’s tyranny. I’ll be glad to get the hell out of here, even if it’s to a prison cell, as long as I don’t have to put up with your adolescent nonsense again. Sir.”

  4

  Over Eastern Siberia, Nine Hundred Kilometers

  Northeast of Yakutsk, Russian Federation

  That same time

  It was one of the most difficult dances in all of aviation, made even more difficult because all the aircraft and the damned drogues were icing up. Someone once described this exercise as trying to stick your dick into a bull while running across a pasture—except now the pasture was slick with ice and snow.

  Aviatskiy Kapitan Leytenant Josef Leborov was very, very good at plugging the bull, but even he was having a tough time of it.

  This morning, in and out of clouds heavily laden with ice, a formation of twenty-four Tupolev-95MD Modifikatsirovanny Daplata aircraft led an even larger formation of thirty-six Tu-95MS-16 Modifikatsirovanny Snaryad strategic bombers on their mission. Spread out over several kilometers, the six formations of four tankers with their six bombers below and behind them made for a very impressive sight. What was not so impressive was watching each bomber trying to plug in to its tanker.

  It was Leborov’s second try—and he was doing better than the others. The ten-meter-long refueling probe was fixed on the Tu-95’s nose, right on the centerline and in plain sight of both pilot and copilot; it had three small lights on the outside edge of the nozzle to illuminate the drogue as it got closer. Once the tanker was forty meters ahead and a few meters higher than the receiver, the tanker’s refueling observer in the tail compartment—formerly the tail gunner’s station—would slowly unreel the drogue. The drogue would swing around wildly for several meters until it got outside the tremendous prop wash behind the plane, but it would then stabilize and begin to drop slightly as the weight of the hose pulled on it. At maximum extension the observer would flash a green light, and the receiver could move forward and plug the drogue.

  The drogue—a large, two-meter-diameter padded lighted steel basket at the end of the fuel hose—did not move around so much. The bomber, on the other hand, seemed never to be in one place long enough to get a good feel for positioning the boom. Unlike Western-style boom aerial refueling, here the tanker’s observer could not assist the hookup—it was the bomber pilot’s show all the way.

  Leborov cruised slowly up to the drogue, trying to make small control and power corrections—but it was no use. The drogue whistled left just enough for the nozzle to hit the rim, which caused the drogue to skitter away. Leborov pulled off a smidgen of power and swore loudly as he backed away for another try. “This fucking pig! I have either not enough control authority or too damned much!”

  “Just think of fucking that pretty little waitress you met a few months ago, Joey,” said Leborov’s copilot and friend, Aviatskiy Starshiy Leytenant Yuri Bodorev. “That’s what I do.”

  “Shut the hell up, asshole,” Leborov said, as good-naturedly as he could.

  “Refueling behind one of our own planes isn’t as easy as it sounded when they first came up with this idea,” Bodorev remarked. Without external stores, Tupolev-95 bombers had a maximum range in excess of twelve thousand kilometers—air refueling was usually not a necessity. But several months ago they started practicing air refueling again, using Tupolev-16 tankers. Then, just weeks ago, modified Tu-95 tankers had been brought in. No one understood the reason for all this innovation and experimentation—until now. “Want me to give it a try, Joey?”

  “No, no, I’m just out of practice,” Leborov said, forcing himself to relax. “How are the gauges looking?”

  “RPMs are matched, trims are within limits, power settings are within one or two percent of each other, and fuel tanks are balanced within two hundred kilos,” replied the flight engineer, sitting right behind the copilot.

  “Just plug this whore and let’s go, Joey,” Bodorev said. “You’re the flight leader—show the other kids how it’s done.” That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed—along with the image of the long probe protruding from almost right between his legs aimed right for his girlfriend’s manda—because on the next pass Leborev plugged the drogue smoothly and easily, as if he’d been doing it every day for years. The fuel transfer would be agonizingly slow, just a thousand
liters a minute, so they would be plugged in for about fifteen minutes just to get a partial offload and allow the other bombers to cycle through.

  It took three hours of formation flying with this huge armada to complete the refueling. Along the way five bombers and two tankers had to drop out, because they either couldn’t transfer fuel, couldn’t receive fuel, or because of some other major malfunction; one aircraft had a serious weapon problem that forced it to jettison two weapons on two different wing pylons. Fortunately, they were able to divvy up fuel from the remaining tankers to the remaining bombers, so all were able to get their scheduled onloads and continue the mission.

  Since one plane had weapons problems, the formation leader decided that all the weapons had to be visually inspected, in addition to the routine safe connectivity-safe continuity checks. “Weapon safety checks complete, all weapons showing safe, no malfunctions,” the bombardier in the downstairs nose compartment reported. “Clearing off for visual check.”

  “Navigator clearing off to assist.”

  Leborov turned around and said, “Stay put, Arkadiy. I need a stretch. I’ll go. Pilot clearing off for visual weapons check.” Bodorev donned his oxygen mask—the pilot flying the aircraft was required to wear it while the other pilot was out of his seat—and gave his partner and friend his usual good-luck sign: thumb and forefinger forming a circle, meaning “asshole.”

  With his parachute, walkaround oxygen bottle, gloves, heavyweight flight jacket, helmet, and oxygen mask on, Leborov stoop-walked past the engineer’s and electronic-warfare officer’s stations, patted the navigator on the shoulder in the very aft section of the cockpit, undogged the hatch to the lower compartment, climbed down the ladder to the lower deck, sealed the upper-deck pressure hatch, and followed the bombardier aft to the weapons bay’s pressurized bulkhead hatch. There were no ejection seats on the Tupolev-95, either upward or downward; the flight-deck crew slid down a pole that extended through the entry hatch that carried them out into the slipstream and away from the aircraft, while the bombardier and gunner simply rolled out through downward escape hatches in their compartments. Now the bombardier unsealed the aft bulkhead hatch, and he and Leborov crawled aft into the weapons bay.