Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “And this estimated budget figure for my lab…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this for real, Jon?”

  “That’s just the starting point, Boomer—that’s the minimum,” Masters chuckled. “You want that in writing, just say so, but I’m guaranteeing you that you’ll have a generous budget to build the team to research and evaluate your designs.”

  “Even so, it’s not enough for the entire division. I’ll need—”

  “You don’t understand, Boomer,” Masters interjected excitedly. “That money is just for you and your team, not split up between everyone in your division, existing projects, or specific company-mandated programs or technology.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m serious as a heart attack, brother,” Masters said. “And it’s not for stuff like company-wide expenses, compliance mandates, or security, but for your team- and project-specific costs. I believe in giving our top engineers the tools they need to do their job.”

  “I can’t believe it. I’ve never even heard of that kind of money being invested by a small company like this.”

  “Believe it, Boomer,” Masters said. “We may be small, but we’ve got investors and a board of directors who think big and expect big things to happen.”

  “Investors? A board of directors…?”

  “We all answer to someone, Boomer,” Masters said. “I ran my company by myself with a handpicked board of directors, which was okay until the projects got smaller and the money got tight. There were a lot of investors out there who wanted to be part of what we were doing here, but no one wants to dump hundreds of millions of dollars into a one-man show. We’re public, and I’m not president anymore, but everyone knows I’m the guy who makes the magic.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “You don’t worry about the board, Boomer. You report to me. Be advised, I’m going to make you work for every dime. I’m going to expect big things from you, and I’ll be putting bugs in your ear about what I know or discover about government requests for proposals, but like I said, I don’t want you waiting around for some weenie in the Pentagon to tell us what they might want—I want us to tell them what they want. So, what do you say? Are you in?”

  “I’m thinking about it, Jon.”

  “Okay. No problem. I know your commitments to the Air Force are up in eight months, correct?” Boomer guessed that Jon Masters knew to the day when his educational commitments to the Air Force for pilot training were up. “I guarantee they’ll offer you a regular commission before that, along with a big fat bonus. They might try to stop-loss you, claiming you’re in a critical specialty, but we’ll deal with that when and if we have to. I have enough contracts with the Air Force, and enough buddies in the Pentagon, to put a little pressure on them to respect your decisions. After all, you’re not getting out to go work for the airlines or be a consultant or lobbyist—you’ll be working for the company that builds them the next generation of hardware.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “You bet it does, Boomer,” Jon Masters said. “Don’t worry about a thing. One more thing, buddy. I know I’m older than you, probably old enough to be your dad if I started real early, so I get to give you a little heads-up.”

  “What’s that, Jon?”

  “I know trying to tell you to take it easy, be safe, and maybe don’t fly so many missions is like trying to tell my golden retriever to stay out of the lake, but I wouldn’t want to have the company’s future vice president of R&D become a shooting star, so take it easy, okay?”

  “Vice president?”

  “Oh, did I say that out loud?” Masters deadpanned. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. Forget I said that. Forget the board was considering it but didn’t want me to reveal that. Gotta go before I tell you about the other thing the board was kicking around…oops, almost did it again. Later, Boomer.”

  OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  The room was loudly called to attention as Russian Federation president Leonid Zevitin quickly strode into the conference room, followed by his chief of staff Peter Orlev, the secretary of the security council, Anatoli Vlasov; the minister of foreign affairs, Alexandra Hedrov; and the chief of the Federal Security Bureau, Igor Truznyev. “Take seats,” Zevitin ordered, and the officers already in the room—General Kuzma Furzyenko, the chief of staff; General Nikolai Ostanko, chief of staff of the army; and General Andrei Darzov, the chief of staff of the air force—shuffled to their chairs. “So. I gave the command for our fighter to attack the unmanned American bomber if it fired a missile, and since we’re meeting like this so quickly, I assume it did, and we did. What happened?”

  “The American B-1 bomber successfully launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea that reportedly destroyed a Hezbollah squad preparing to launch a rocket from an apartment complex in southeast Tehran,” General Darzov replied. “The missile made a direct hit on the launch squad’s location, killing the entire crew…” He paused, then added, “including our Special Forces adviser. The bomber then—”

  “Hold on, General, hold on a sec,” Zevitin said impatiently, holding up a hand. “They launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea? You mean a cruise missile, and not a laser-guided bomb or TV-guided missile?” Many of those around the table narrowed their eyes, not because they disliked Zevitin’s tone or question but because they were unaccustomed to someone with such a distinct Western accent at a classified meeting in the Kremlin.

  Leonid Zevitin, one of Russia’s youngest leaders since the fall of the czars, was born outside St. Petersburg but was educated and had spent most of his life in Europe and the United States, and so had almost no Russian accent unless he wanted or needed one, such as when speaking before Russian citizens at a political rally. Frequently seen all over the world with starlets and royalty, Zevitin came from the world of international banking and finance, not from politics or the military. After decades of old, stodgy political bosses or bureaucratic henchmen as president, the election of Leonid Zevitin was seen by most Russians as a breath of fresh air.

  But behind the secretive walls of the Kremlin, he was something altogether different than just expensive silk suits, impeccable hair, jet-setter style, and a million-dollar smile—he was the puppet master in the grand old Russian tradition, every bit as cold, calculating, and devoid of any warm personality traits as the worst of his predecessors. Because he had no political, apparatchik, military, or intelligence background, no one knew how Zevitin thought, what he desired, or who his allies or captains in government were—his henchmen could be anyone, anywhere. That kept most of the Kremlin off-guard, suspicious, tight-lipped, and at least overtly loyal.

  “No, sir—the missile went faster than Mach four, which is the fastest speed our fighter’s radar can track a target. I would describe it as a very high-speed guided rocket.”

  “I assume, then, that you compared the time of launch and the time of impact and came up with a number?”

  “Yes, sir.” His eyes looked pained—no one could tell whether it was because the general was afraid of telling the president the bad news, or because he was being lectured to by this foreign-sounding young playboy.

  “But you don’t believe the number you computed,” Zevitin said for the air force chief of staff. “Obviously this weapon was something we did not expect. What was the speed, General?”

  “Average speed, Mach five point seven.”

  “Almost six times the speed of sound?” That news rocked every member of the security staff back in their chairs. “And that was the average speed, which means the top speed was Mach…ten? The Americans have an attack missile that can fly at Mach ten? Why didn’t we know of this?”

  “We know now, sir,” General Furzyenko said. “The Americans made the mistake of using their new toy with one of our fighters on his wingtip.”

  “Obviously they were not concerned enough about our fighter to cancel their pat
rol or their attack,” Zevitin offered.

  “It was what the Americans call an ‘operational test,’ sir,” air force chief of staff General Andrei Darzov said. A short, battle-worn air force bomber pilot, Darzov preferred his head shaved bald because he knew how it intimidated a lot of people, especially politicians and bureaucrats. He had visible burn scars on the left side of his neck and on his left hand, and the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand were missing, all a result of injuries sustained in the bombing of Engels Air Base, Russia’s main bomber base, several years earlier, when he served as Forces of Long-Range Aviation division commander.

  Darzov had wanted nothing short of bloody payback for the utter devastation wreaked on his headquarters during the sneak attack on Engels, and swore revenge on the American air commander who had planned and executed it…Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.

  Under former military chief of staff turned president Anatoliy Gryzlov, who wanted revenge on the United States as badly as Darzov, he soon got his opportunity. Andrei Darzov was the architect of the plan just a year later to modify Russia’s long-range Tu-95 Bear, Tu-26 Backfire, and Tu-160 Blackjack bombers with aerial refueling probes to allow them the range to attack the United States. It was an audacious, ambitious plan that succeeded in destroying most of the United States’ long-range bombers and the control centers for over half of their land-based intercontinental ballistic nuclear-tipped missiles. The devastating assault killed over thirty thousand people and injured or sickened thousands more, and soon became known as the “American Holocaust.”

  But Darzov hadn’t heard the last of his archenemy, Patrick McLanahan. When McLanahan’s counterattack destroyed almost an equivalent number of Russia’s most powerful silo-based and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles, someone had to take the blame—other than the then-president of Russia, General Gryzlov, who had been killed during an American air strike on his Ryazan underground command center—and Darzov was it. He was blamed for making the decision to stage all of the Ilyushin-78 and Tupolev-16 tanker aircraft at one isolated air base in Siberia, Yakutsk, and for not providing enough security there, which allowed McLanahan and his Air Battle Force to take over the base and use the enormous amount of fuel stored there to be used by McLanahan’s bombers to hunt down and destroy Russia’s land-based nuclear deterrent force.

  Darzov was demoted to one-star general and sent to Yakutsk to oversee the cleanup and eventual closing of that once-vital Siberian base—because in an attempt to destroy McLanahan’s bombers on the ground, Gryzlov had ordered Yakutsk attacked by low-yield nuclear weapons. While only four of the dozens of nuclear warheads penetrated McLanahan’s anti-missile shield around the base, and they were all high-altitude airbursts designed to minimize radioactive fallout, most of the base had been severely damaged, and the heart of it had been flattened and rendered uninhabitable. There was much speculation that the general staff hoped Darzov would become sick from the lingering radioactivity so they would be spared the chore of eliminating the popular, intelligent young general officer.

  But not only did Darzov not die, he didn’t stay long in virtual exile in Siberia. Health-wise, Darzov and his loyal senior staff members survived by using the radioactivity decontamination equipment left behind by the Americans when they evacuated their personnel from Yakutsk. Career- and prestige-wise, he survived by not giving in to despair when it seemed like the entire world was against him.

  With the financial and moral support of a young investment banker named Leonid Zevitin, Darzov rebuilt the base and soon made it operational again instead of preparing it for demolition and abandonment. The move revitalized Russia’s Siberian oil and gas industry, which relied on the base for much-needed support and supply, and the government raked in enormous amounts of revenue from Siberian oil, most sold to Japan and China through new pipelines. The young base commander garnered the attention and gratitude of Russia’s wealthiest and most successful investment banker, Leonid Zevitin. Thanks to Zevitin’s sponsorship, Darzov was brought back to Moscow, promoted to four-star general, and eventually picked as chief of staff of the air forces by newly elected president Zevitin.

  “The Americans have tipped their hand and revealed a new hypersonic air-to-ground weapon,” Furzyenko said. “It shows how overconfident they are, and that will be their weakness. Not only that, but they wasted a multimillion-dollar missile destroying a truck and homemade rocket worth a few dollars.”

  “Seems to me they have every right to be overconfident, General—they can quickly and accurately destroy any target from two hundred miles away as easy as a child plinking a can with a .22 rifle from twenty meters away,” Zevitin said. Many of the generals knitted their eyebrows, as much in confusion at some of Zevitin’s Western terms as in struggling to understand his heavily accented Russian. “Plus, they did it right before our eyes, knowing we’d be watching and measuring the weapon’s performance. It was a demonstration for our benefit, as well as a very effective terror weapon against the Islamists.” Zevitin turned to Darzov. “What happened to the fighter that was shadowing the B-1 bomber, Andrei?”

  “The pilot landed safely but with most of his plane’s electronic equipment completely disabled,” the air force chief of staff responded.

  “How? Their terahertz weapon again?”

  “Possibly, but the American so-called T-Ray weapon is a subatomic wide-area weapon that destroys electronic circuits at ranges exceeding six hundred kilometers,” Darzov replied. “No other stations reported any disruption. The pilot reported that as soon as he launched his missiles his fighter…simply shut itself down.”

  “You mean, the missile shut itself down.”

  “No, sir. The entire airplane shut itself down, as if the pilot had turned everything off all at once.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “The terahertz weapon may have been able to do it,” Darzov said. “We will not know until we look at the fighter computer’s error logs. But my guess would be that McLanahan has deployed his ‘netrusion’ system on the Dreamland bombers, and possibly all of his aircraft and spacecraft.”

  “‘Netrusion’? What’s that?”

  “The ability to ‘hack’ into an opponent’s computer systems through any sensor or antenna that receives digital signals,” Darzov explained. “We do not completely understand the process, but the bombers can transmit a signal that is picked up and processed like any other digital instruction or message. The enemy signal can be false radar targets, confusing coded messages, flight control inputs, or even electronic commands to aircraft systems…”

  “Such as a shutdown order,” Zevitin said. He shook his head. “He conceivably could have commanded the MiG to fly straight down or around in circles—luckily he only ordered it to shut down. Must be nice to be so rich that you can build such wonderful toys to load up on your planes.” He nodded. “Looks like your old friend is still in the game, eh, General?”

  “Yes, sir,” Darzov said. “Patrick McLanahan.” He smiled. “I will welcome a chance to take him on again and repay him for imprisoning my men and women, taking my base, and stealing my fuel. However, from what I understand, he may not be around much longer. The new administration does not like him at all.”

  “If McLanahan had any political savvy, he’d have resigned the moment the new president took the oath of office,” Zevitin said. “Obviously that has not happened. Either McLanahan is more dedicated—or dumber—than we thought, or Gardner isn’t going to fire him, which means he might not be the buffoon we think he is.” He looked at the generals around him. “Forget about McLanahan and his high-tech toys that never get built—he’s the best they’ve got, but he’s only one man, and he’s squirreled away in that awful desert base in Nevada instead of in the White House now, which means no one has the opportunity to listen to him anymore.” To Truznyev, chief of the Federal Security Bureau, successor organization to the KGB, he asked, “What about your ‘adviser’ in Iran? Did you get him out?”

 
“What was left of him, yes, sir,” the FSB chief replied.

  “Good. The last thing we need is some enterprising American or Persian investigator finding Russian clothing or weapons mixed in with a lot of Iranian body parts.”

  “He was replaced with another agent,” Truznyev said. He turned angrily to Alexandra Hedrov, the foreign minister. “Giving those Hezbollah bastards weapons like the 9K89 is a waste of time and money, and hurt us in the long run. We should stop supplying them with such advanced missiles and let them go back to firing homemade Katyushas and mortars at the Persian collaborators.”

  “You agreed to General Furzyenko’s recommendation to send the ‘Hornet’ missile to Iran, Director,” Zevitin pointed out.

  “I agreed that the Hornet missile should be used to attack Persian army and air force bases with high-explosive and mine-laying warheads, sir,” Truznyev said, “not to just fire them indiscriminately into the city. The launch point was at the very edge of the rocket’s maximum range to hit the Doshan Tappeh air base, which was the target they told us they were going to strike. The Hezbollah crew also reportedly dragged their feet launching the missile—they even let children come around and watch the launch. This has been reported many times.”

  “We will obviously have to instruct the insurgents to adjust tactics now that we know about this new American weapon,” General Darzov said.

  “Will you also instruct them not to put their own homemade poison brews in the warhead?” Truznyev asked.

  “What are you talking about, Director?”

  “The Hezbollah insurgents loaded the Hornet missile’s warhead up with some sort of chemical weapon concoction, similar to mustard gas but much more effective,” the FSB chief said perturbedly. “The gas killed a dozen people on the street and injured several dozen others.”