Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Lester?”

  “I hate to say it, Mr. President, but that big Russian asshole has got you by the balls,” Vice President Busick said. “If you let McLanahan go ahead, he can claim you escalated the conflict instead of negotiating. If you agree to his demand, you could be tossin’ away McLanahan’s life—and that motherfucker could still hit us from the blind side again. It’s the wacko in the catbird seat, sir.” He sighed, then said, “I recommend you let McLanahan proceed. We’ve always got the sea-launched nukes. If Gryzlov commences another attack, he’ll be signing his own death warrant. This time, though, I suggest you launch on alert—the second we see any more missiles comin’ at us, we pound Moscow and every military base in our sights into carbon atoms.”

  Thomas Thorn turned away from the camera and stared off toward the door to the office suite aboard Air Force One. He hated making decisions like this alone; he’d always had Goff, Venti, or his wife nearby to query or from whom to get opinions on something. Even though he was electronically connected to everyone, he felt completely isolated.

  He turned back toward his teleconference monitors. Goff looked angry, Venti as calm and as unruffled as ever, and Maureen Hershel appeared determined and aggressive. “Robert, what’s the chance of McLanahan’s successfully accomplishing this mission?” he asked.

  “Mr. President, it’s impossible to guess,” Goff replied. “It’s a good plan—simple, modest, and audacious enough to surprise the heck out of everyone. I don’t believe for a moment Gryzlov knows where our boys are or what they’re doing, or else he would’ve paraded shot-up aircraft and bodies out for the world press in a heartbeat. McLanahan’s teams are small and rely too much on high-tech gizmos for my taste, but if anyone knows that arena, it’s him. However, the sheer scope of what they have to do…hell, sir, I don’t give them more than a one-in-ten chance.”

  “That’s it?”

  “But considering our only other options, I think it’s the best chance we’ve got,” Goff said. “Gryzlov’s a mad dog, sir—totally unpredictable. If he were worried about the destruction of his regime and the Russian government, he never would have attacked us. The bottom line is, he could strike again at any moment. We’ve got to move before he does. McLanahan’s our only option, other than an all-out nuclear attack.”

  “And if I chose to recall McLanahan and wait to see if Gryzlov really will stand down his strategic and tactical nuclear forces?”

  “Sir, you just can’t trust Gryzlov,” Vice President Busick said. “More than likely he’s hoping that we’ll try to recall or freeze McLanahan, which will give the Russians an opportunity to pinpoint his location. The guy is obsessed with tacking McLanahan’s scalp up on his wall, sir—you heard him yourself. My God, the bastard probably murdered Sen’kov and then attacked the United States of America with nuclear weapons just to lash out at McLanahan—he wouldn’t hesitate to lie to your face if it meant getting a shot at McLanahan, dead or alive.”

  Thorn nodded his thanks to his onetime political adversary, thought in silence for a few moments, then said, “I don’t want to play Gryzlov’s game, but I don’t want to provoke another nuclear attack either. And if there’s any way to ensure peace, even if it means entering into negotiations with the Russians before we attempt a counterstrike, even if it means sacrificing a good man, I’ll do it.

  “McLanahan can continue to his objective—but he holds short before he attacks. He must contact Secretary Goff, General Venti, or myself for an update and instructions. If we have positive evidence that Gryzlov has stood down his forces and is ready to negotiate a verifiable arms deal, we’ll recall McLanahan—preferably by getting permission from Gryzlov to fly a transport plane in and get him, rather than make McLanahan evade the Russian army halfway across Siberia. Under no circumstances can McLanahan or his forces commence their attack without a go signal from one of us.”

  Reluctantly, Secretary Goff turned to Richard Venti and nodded. Venti picked up a telephone. “Get me General Luger at Battle Mountain.” Moments later: “Dick Venti here, secure, Dave.”

  “David Luger, secure, ready to copy, sir.”

  “We’re going to issue written orders in a moment, but I’m relaying orders to you now directly from the president: Patrick’s teams go in, but they hold in place and contact the National Command Authority or myself before initiating action.”

  “That would be extremely hazardous for the team, sir,” Luger responded. “With their fuel states and reaction times, they’re counting on a very precise sequence of actions to occur. Stopping someplace outside the fence to hide and wait wasn’t in the game plan.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the order, General,” Venti said. “Transmit yours and Patrick’s concerns to me once you get the written orders, but get a message out to Patrick right away and give him the update. Ask him to acknowledge the orders immediately.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I ask what prompted this change of plan, sir? Communications from President Gryzlov?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Sir, I assure you, the team is still on schedule and still one hundred percent mission-ready,” Luger said. “If Gryzlov told you that agreeing to call off this mission is the only way to save the team’s lives or to ensure peace, he’s lying.”

  “Issue the orders, General,” Venti said simply. He knew for damned sure Luger was right, but the president had already made his decision. It was a dangerous but prudent compromise—putting a small group of commandos at great risk in the hope of averting a nuclear exchange at the same time. “If you have any questions or concerns, put them in writing and send them along. Out.”

  You can’t be serious, sir!” General Nikolai Stepashin exclaimed. “You are going to unilaterally stand down our strategic and tactical forces?”

  “Of course not, General,” President Anatoliy Gryzlov said as he replaced the phone back on its cradle. He lit up a cigarette, which only served to make the cramped, stifling meeting room even gloomier. “Do you think I’m stupid? Give the Americans the locations of the missile bases, silos, and garrisons they already know about and monitor; move a few planes around; scatter around some inert weapons, fuel tanks, or ammo boxes on the ramps besides a few bombers—anything to make it appear as if we are disarming.”

  “Such trickery will not fool the Americans for long.”

  “It doesn’t have to, Nikolai,” Gryzlov said. “All I want is for Thorn to issue the order to McLanahan to halt.”

  “Halt? Why do you think he will tell him to just stop?”

  “Because Thorn is a weak, spineless, contemplative rag doll,” Gryzlov responded derisively. “He sent McLanahan on some mission—more likely McLanahan himself launched a mission—so he does not want to order him to just turn around and come home, because it represents the only offensive action he’s taken during this entire conflict. But at the same time, he wants to avoid confrontation and distress and will therefore clutch onto any possible hope that a concession from him will end this conflict.

  “My guess is that he will not order McLanahan to turn back, but he will not order the mission to be terminated either—it is part of his pattern of indecisive thinking that will result in defeat for the Americans and disgrace for Thorn and all who follow him,” Gryzlov said confidently. “He will order McLanahan to stop at Eareckson Air Base and stand by until Thorn sees if we are serious or not. This will give us several hours, perhaps even a day or two, to find McLanahan and crush him. All of our strike forces will still be in place and still ready to deliver another blow against the Americans if they decide to counterattack.”

  Gryzlov looked at Stepashin and aimed a finger at him menacingly. “You have your orders, Stepashin—it’s up to you and your men now,” he said. “Find McLanahan, his aircraft, and his Tin Man commandos. Don’t worry about taking them alive—just blast them to hell as soon as you find them.” He thought for a moment. “You have a force of bombers standing by for follow-on attacks, do you not, Stepashin?”

  “Yes, sir
,” the chief of staff replied. He quickly scanned a report in a folder in front of him. “I think we have adequate forces ready, sir. What is the target, sir?”

  “Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island.”

  Stepashin nodded. That order was not unexpected: The two Tupolev-160 bombers originally assigned to destroy Shemya obviously were shot down or crashed sometime between their successful strikes over Alaska and their planned attacks against Eareckson; satellite reconnaissance reported much air activity over Shemya, so the base was obviously still operational. As America’s closest base to Russia’s eastern military bases, Shemya had to be dealt with. “We will plan another air strike using MiG-23s from Anadyr.”

  “Fighter-bombers? What about the rest of our heavy-bomber fleet, Stepashin?”

  Nikolai Stepashin swallowed apprehensively. “The initial attack on North America was most successful, sir, but the casualty count was high,” he said. “The heavy-bomber units will need time to reorganize and reconstitute their forces.”

  “How high?”

  Stepashin hesitated again, then responded, “Forty percent, sir.”

  “Forty percent!”

  “Approximately forty percent of the force that launched on that mission was shot down, failed to return to base, or returned with damage or malfunctions significant enough to make them non-mission-ready,” Stepashin said. “Against the United States, I count that as a major victory.”

  “You do, do you?” Gryzlov asked derisively. “It sounds like a tremendous loss to me!”

  “It is a tremendous loss to our bomber force, sir,” Stepashin said. “But we scored an amazing victory and accomplished eighty to ninety percent of our stated objective—crippling America’s strategic strike force. Initial reports estimate that we have eliminated seventy-five percent of its long-range bomber force and perhaps half of its strategic nuclear-missile force, plus all but eliminated America’s capability to launch its surviving land-based missiles and its ability to control its nuclear forces in the event of an all-out nuclear war. I consider it a great victory for you, sir.”

  “I don’t share your optimistic assessment, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said angrily. “Forty percent casualties in one day is far too much, and initial assessments of successes are always too optimistic. What nuclear forces remain?”

  “Virtually all of our land-and sea-based nuclear ballistic force is operational,” Stepashin said. “You can be assured that—”

  “I am assured of nothing when it comes to our missile fleet, General, and you know it,” Gryzlov said. “Why do you think I put so much trust in our bomber fleet? I was in your position two years ago, damn it. I visited the bases, interviewed the crews—not the suck-ass commanders, mind you, but the launch and maintenance crews themselves!—and saw for myself the deplorable condition of our nuclear forces. I wouldn’t give our missile forces more than a sixty percent success rate—and that’s a sixty percent chance of even leaving their launch tubes successfully, let alone hitting their assigned targets with any degree of accuracy!”

  “That is simply not the case, sir….”

  “Nye kruti mnye yaytsa! Don’t twist my balls!” Gryzlov snapped. “I relied on the modernization of our bomber forces to save this country, Stepashin. The Americans disassembled virtually all of their bomber defenses—the attacks should have been cakewalks.” Stepashin had no response for Gryzlov’s accusations, just silent denial. “How many planes are in reserve?”

  “We committed no more than one-third of the fleet to the initial attack,” Stepashin replied, then quickly added, “at your order. That leaves us with a long-and extended-range bomber force of approximately one hundred and eighty aircraft. Two-thirds of these are based in the Far East Military District, safe from tactical air attack and positioned so they can mount successful raids on North America again if necessary.”

  “It’s necessary,” Gryzlov said. “You failed to destroy Eareckson Air Base in the initial assault, and now it is being used against us by McLanahan and his Phoenix bombers. Plan a strike mission on Eareckson. Completely destroy the airfield, intelligence-gathering, and surveillance facilities. Plan another mission to attack any military air-defense or airfield facilities on Attu Island as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gryzlov thought for a moment, then said, “Launch the attack on Shemya using the MiG-23 tactical bombers from Anadyr only. Mass those forces if you must, but I want Eareckson turned into glass as soon as possible. I want the long-range bombers readied for follow-on attacks over North America.”

  “Targets, sir?”

  “The targets that failed to be struck by our initial attack force: the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Barksdale Air Force Base, Fairchild Air Force Base, Nellis Air Force Base, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base….” Gryzlov paused, gazed off into the distance distractedly, then added, “And Sacramento, California, as well.”

  “Sacramento? You mean, Beale Air Force Base, sir?”

  “That can be our intended target, of course,” Gryzlov said. “But I want the warhead to land in the city of Sacramento, not on the military base.”

  “For God’s sake, sir, why? The city itself is no longer a military target—all of the bases located near it were turned into civilian airports. There is a small rocket-motor research company there, and some computer-chip research firms, but they don’t…” Then he remembered the general’s previous remarks about his twisted motivations for this entire campaign—and he remembered that same look Gryzlov had now, and he knew why Gryzlov wanted to target a major American population center, before the president started to speak. “Not McLanahan again, sir…?”

  “Another of our missiles will go off course, Stepashin, just like the one that ‘went off course’ and hit Spokane, Washington,” Gryzlov said. “But that strike, the loss of his son and what remains of his already fractured family, will be the final event that will drive Patrick Shane McLanahan mad.”

  “Sir, you cannot tell me that you would kill hundreds of thousands of civilians just to lash out at—?”

  “It will be a missile malfunction, damn it!” Gryzlov retorted. “I will apologize, offer my condolences, perhaps even offer to resign from office in an attempt to atone for the miscalculation. The Duma will reject that offer, of course. But McLanahan will suffer far more than any other man or woman on the planet.” He glanced at Stepashin’s incredulous expression and shook his head. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you, General? McLanahan is perhaps even now preparing to strike our forces, and you still believe that I’m crazy for taking such a personal interest in this man?

  “It is you who are mistaken, Stepashin,” Gryzlov went on. “McLanahan is like a crocodile, like a rattlesnake. He lies quietly, moves slowly, barely creates a ripple in the water or disturbs a leaf on the ground when he moves. But when he moves, it is with speed, power, and tenacity. His jaws clamp on, and he will not let go until he has killed his prey. And then he returns to his lair or his river, lies quietly, and watches and waits for the next opportunity to strike.”

  “Mr. President, with all due respect, I suggest you take some time to get a little more perspective on this conflict,” Nikolai Stepashin said. He knew that it was dangerous to try to admonish or correct a man like Gryzlov, but in order to sustain any semblance of control or leadership in this conflict, he had to be sure of exactly where the president’s head was right now. “I understand your campaign against McLanahan—I agree that the man has been at the root of so many major conflicts in past years that it is a wonder he’s still alive, let alone not in prison or dangling at the end of a rope. But this war is far beyond one man now. We are at war, Mr. President! Let us focus on the American war machine, not on this one disgraced Air Force officer. You must meet with the general staff and hear what they have to—”

  “I’m well aware of what’s at stake and what must be done, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said. “Your job is to get the information and opinions from the general staff and present them to me, and for me to pass along my ord
ers to the general staff. I have followed the staff’s recommendations to the letter. I have invested the money, built up and modernized our forces, and garnered the support of the Duma—everything my military and political advisers told me I would have to do before this campaign could be successful. Do not question my motivations, Stepashin!”

  “I…I do not question your goals, nor your commitment to them, sir,” Stepashin said. “But talking about going to war and destroying one city just to lash out against one man is not rational. Disrupting the American strategic nuclear triad and regaining parity with American nuclear forces—that is a goal I and the members of the general staff agree with completely. But it is…disheartening to hear you rattle on about this McLanahan as if he were some demigod that needs to be destroyed.”

  Gryzlov looked as if he were about to explode in a fit of rage…but instead he lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, stubbed it out, and nodded through the haze of blue smoke. “Do not worry, Stepashin,” he said. “The battle in which Russia is engaged is real. The battle I fight on Russia’s behalf with McLanahan will not interfere with that. Now give the order to strike Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island, and have the plan ready for my approval as soon as possible.”

  That’s the order, Muck,” Dave Luger said. “I just got the hard copy.” There was no response. Luger waited a few more moments, heard nothing, then asked, “You copy, Patrick?”

  “Loud and clear,” Patrick McLanahan responded via his subcutaneous satellite transceiver.

  “It sucks, but all the players will still be in position, and we can move fast from Eareckson when we get the go-ahead,” Luger said. “Should I give the word?”

  There was another long period of silence. Luger was about to ask the question again, but Patrick finally responded, “No. Everyone continues as planned.”

  “Patrick…”

  “No arguments this time,” Patrick interjected. “The brass signed off on the operation—and damn it, we’re going to complete it. Unless Gryzlov is confirmed dead or in custody by American officials, I’m not trusting him to make peace with the United States.”