Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “Not to mention McLanahan was obviously not getting business done back at home,” Gardner added. They both laughed, and Gardner used that opportunity to clasp Barbeau’s hand again. “He was too busy playing space cadet to pay any attention to her.” He affixed Barbeau with a deep, serious stare. “Look, Stacy, let’s get right down to it, okay? I know what you want—you’ve been lobbying for it since you set foot inside the Beltway. With most of the rest of the Air Force bomber bases destroyed by the Russians in the ’04 Holocaust nuclear attacks, Barksdale Air Force Base is the natural home for a new long-range bomber fleet—”

  “If the Pentagon doesn’t keep on dumping money into that dust-bowl desert base in Battle Mountain, black programs in Dreamland—another Nevada base that mostly falls outside congressional oversight, I might point out—or the space station.”

  “It’s no secret McLanahan’s stock rose to all-time highs after his actions in the counterattacks against Russia,” Gardner said, “and his pet projects were the unmanned bombers at Battle Mountain, his high-tech laser gizmos at Dreamland, and now the space station. It gave Martindale something to point at and brag to the American people that he devised and supported—”

  “Even though President Thomas Thorn was the one who authorized their construction, not Martindale,” Barbeau pointed out.

  “Unfortunately, President Thorn will always and forever be known as the president who allowed the Russians to pull off a sneak attack against the United States that killed thirty thousand men, women, and children and injured another quarter million,” Gardner said. “It won’t matter that he was just as interested in high-tech toys as Martindale: Thorn will always be thought of as the weaker president.

  “But the question is, what do we think is in the best interest of the American people and national defense, Stacy—these fancy spaceplanes that can’t carry as much as the Secret Service’s Suburbans, or proven technology like stealth bombers, unmanned combat aerial vehicles, and aircraft carriers? McLanahan has convinced Martindale that spaceplanes are better, even though he used unmanned bombers almost exclusively in his attacks on Russia—”

  “And as you’ve pointed out many times, Joe,” Barbeau added, “we can’t afford to put all our eggs in one basket again. The Russian attack was so successful because all the bombers were located at a small handful of undefended bases, and unless they’re all in the air, they’re vulnerable to attack. But aircraft carrier battle groups deployed to bases all around the world, or far out at sea, are heavily equipped for self-protection and are far less vulnerable to sneak attack.”

  “Exactly,” Gardner said, nodding with pleasure that Barbeau had brought up the aircraft carriers. “That’s the point I’ve been trying to make for all these years. We need a mix of forces—we can’t dump all the money for new weapon systems on one unproven technology. An aircraft carrier battle group is no more expensive that what McLanahan is proposing we spend on these spaceplanes, but they are far more versatile and battle-proven.”

  “The Senate Armed Services Committee needs to hear that argument from you and your administration, Joe,” Barbeau said, giving his hand another caress and leaning forward toward him sympathetically, exposing more of her ample cleavage. “McLanahan was the hero of the war to avenge the American Holocaust, but that was in the past. A lot of senators may be afraid to cross McLanahan for fear there will be a backlash against them if the American people wonder why they’re not supporting America’s most famous general. But with McLanahan silenced, if they get the direct support of the President, they’ll be more inclined to break ranks. Now is the time to act. We must do something, and it has to be now, while McLanahan is…well, with all due respect, while the general is out of the picture. Undoubtedly the committee’s confidence in the spaceplane program is rattled. They are much more amenable to a compromise.”

  “I think we need to get together on this, Stacy,” Gardner said. “Let’s hammer out a plan that both the committee and the Pentagon will support. We should present a united front.”

  “That sounds marvelous, Mr. President, really marvelous.”

  “Then I have the full support of the Senate Armed Services Committee?” Gardner asked. “I have allies in the House I can call on too, but the backing of the Senate is crucial. Together, united, we can go before the American people and Congress and make a convincing argument.”

  “What if McLanahan pulls out of this? He and that ex-senator astronaut science geek Ann Page are a formidable team.”

  “McLanahan is out—he’ll surely retire, or be forced to retire.”

  “That man is a bulldog. If he recovers, he won’t retire.”

  “If he won’t do it for his own good, he’ll do it because I’ll order him to do it,” Gardner said. “And if he still fights it, I’ll make sure the world understands how dangerous the man has been over the years. He is a loose cannon—the world just doesn’t know about it. The man killed dozens of innocent civilians in Tehran, for Christ’s sake.”

  “He did?” She hated to let it slip that the majority leader of the U.S. Senate didn’t know something, but she couldn’t help it. It was a surprise, and she didn’t like surprises. Would Gardner fill her in? “When?”

  “On the very mission we were discussing when he had his episode, the operational test mission he was running from the Armstrong Space Station,” Gardner replied. “He set off a missile that released chemical weapons outside an apartment building in Tehran, killing dozens including women and children, and then he attacked a Russian reconnaissance plane with some kind of death ray—probably to cover up the attack on Tehran.”

  Thank God Gardner was a blabbermouth. “I had no idea…!”

  “That’s not the half of what this joker does, Stacy. I know a dozen different criminal infractions and outright acts of war he’s responsible for over the years—including an attack that probably made Russian president Gryzlov plan the atomic attacks against the United States.”

  “What?”

  “McLanahan is a loose cannon, a complete wild card,” Gardner said bitterly. “He attacked Russia with absolutely no authorization; he bombed a Russian bomber base simply for personal revenge. Gryzlov was a former Russian bomber pilot—he knew it was an attack against him, a personal attack.” Gardner was on a roll—this was better than the Congressional Research Service, Barbeau thought. “That’s why Gryzlov went after bomber bases in the United States—not because our bombers were any great strategic threat to Russia, but because he was trying to get McLanahan.”

  Barbeau’s mouth was open in shock…but at the same time, she was tantalized, even aroused. Damn, she thought, McLanahan seemed like such a milquetoast, a Boy Scout—who the hell knew he was some kind of maverick action hero? That made him more appealing than ever. What else lurked underneath that impossibly quiet, unassuming frame? She had to shake herself out of her sudden reverie. “Wow…”

  “The Russians are scared of him, that’s for sure,” Gardner went on. “Zevitin wants me to have him arrested. He demands to know what he’s been doing and what he intends to do with the space station and those spaceplanes. He’s madder than hell, and I don’t blame him.”

  “Zevitin sees the space station as a threat.”

  “Of course he does. But is that the only damned benefit of the thing? It’s costing us as much as two aircraft carrier battle groups to keep that thing up there…for what? I’ve got to reassure Zevitin that the space stuff is no direct offensive threat to Russia, and I don’t know exactly what the thing can do! I didn’t even know McLanahan was on board the thing!”

  “If it’s only a defensive system, I don’t see any reason not to tell Zevitin all there is to tell about the space station, if it’ll help defuse tensions between us,” Barbeau said. “The McLanahan situation may have solved itself.”

  “Thank God,” Gardner grunted. “I’m sure for every crime I know McLanahan is guilty of, there are ten more I don’t know about…yet,” Gardner went on. “He’s got weapons at his disp
osal from dozens of different black research programs that I don’t even fully know about, and I was the damned Secretary of Defense!”

  She looked at Gardner carefully. “McLanahan will certainly retire on his own, or you can have him medically retire,” she said. “But he could be even more dangerous to us on the outside.”

  “I know, I know. That’s why Zevitin wants him put away.”

  “If I can help you put pressure on McLanahan, Joe, just tell me,” Barbeau said sincerely. “I’ll do whatever I can to turn him, or at least make him think about what his opinions mean to others in the government and around the world. I’ll make him realize it’s personal, not just business. I’ll ruin him if he persists, but I’m sure I can convince him to see it our way.”

  “If anyone can convince him, Stacy, it’s you.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, each silently asking and answering the questions they dared not verbalize. “So, Stacy, I know this isn’t your first time in the residence. I assume you’ve seen the Lincoln Bedroom before?”

  Barbeau’s smile was as hot as a bonfire, and she unabashedly looked Gardner up and down hungrily as if sizing him up in a pickup bar. She slowly rose from her seat. “Yes, I’ve seen it,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “I played there as a young girl when my father was in the Senate. It was a children’s playroom back then. Of course it has an entirely different connotation now—still a playroom, but not for children.”

  “It’s still the best fund-raiser in town—twenty-five grand a night per person is the going rate.”

  “It’s too bad we’ve been reduced to such tawdry acts, isn’t it?” Barbeau asked. “It spoils the feel of this place.”

  “The White House is still a house,” Gardner said distractedly. “It’s impossible for me to see it as more than just a workplace. I haven’t seen a tenth of the rooms in here yet. They tell me there are thirty-five bathrooms here—I’ve seen three. Frankly I don’t have much desire to explore the place.”

  “Oh, but you should, Joe,” Barbeau said. “I think you will, when you get over the tumultuous first few months in office and get a chance to relax.”

  “If McLanahan can stop stirring the shit, maybe I could.”

  She turned, her arms outstretched, looking around the room. “I asked Mr. Kordus if we could meet here, in the Treaty Room, because I don’t recall ever being in here although it’s right next door to the Lincoln Bedroom. But the history in this place is so strong you can feel it. The Treaty Room has been used as a Cabinet meeting room, reception and waiting room, and as the President’s study. It’s historically been the place in the White House where the real political business gets done, even more so than the Oval Office.”

  “I’ve had a few informal meetings in here, but mostly the staff uses it.”

  “The staff is usually too busy to appreciate the energy that flows through this room, Joe,” Barbeau said. “You should take the time to sense it.” With her arms still outstretched, she closed her eyes. “Imagine: Ulysses S. Grant conducting his half-drunken Cabinet meetings here, followed by a card game and arm-wrestling matches with his friends; Teddy Roosevelt nailing animal hides to the walls; Kennedy signing the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty here, then days later seducing Marilyn Monroe in the same place, right down the hall from where his wife and children slept.”

  Gardner stepped behind her and lightly put his hands on her waist. “I never heard that story before, Stacy.”

  She took his hands and pulled them around her waist, drawing him closer. “I just made that last one up, Joe,” she said in a whisper, so quiet that he moved his cheek to hers and pulled her tightly to him to hear. “But I’ll bet it happened. And who knows what a man like Kevin Martindale did in here after his divorce—the divorce that should have wrecked his political career but only enhanced it—with all his Hollywood starlets flitting in and out of here all the time at all hours?” She took his hands, swirled them around her belly, then took his fingers and gently lifted them to her breasts, encircling her nipples. She could feel his body stiffen and could practically hear his mind whirring as he tried to decide what to do about her sudden advance. “He probably had a different bitch in here every night of the year.”

  “Stacy…” She could feel Gardner’s breath on her neck, his hands gently caressing her breasts, barely touching…

  Barbeau whirled around toward him and roughly pushed him away. “Martindale was an imbecile, Joe, but he spent two terms as president and two terms as vice president and became a damned fixture in the White House—and he got to fuck Hollywood starlets in here! What are you going to do to beat that, Joe?”

  Gardner was frozen in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you, Stacy?” he finally managed to blurt out.

  “What is it you want, Mr. President?” Barbeau asked loudly. “What is your game plan? Why are you here?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the President of the United States of America. You live in the White House…but you’ve only used three bathrooms? You don’t know what’s been done in this room, this house, the enormous history of this place? You have a three-star general under your command that has twice the voter approval rating you do, with a heart condition no less, and he’s still in uniform? There’s a space station orbiting the planet that you don’t want and it’s still up there? You have a woman in your arms but you touch her like some sweaty lovestruck adolescent on his first date trying to get to second base? Maybe all you really did with Maureen Hershel is ‘business,’ is that it?”

  Gardner was flustered, then angry, then indignant. “Listen, Senator, this is no damned game. You’re hot as hell, but I came here to discuss business.”

  “You’ve been honest with me since I called you for this meeting, Joe—don’t fucking lie to me now,” Barbeau snapped, taking one step away from him and letting her green eyes bore into him. Her sudden change in persona, from seductress to barracuda, startled him. “I didn’t have to threaten you to invite me to the residence; I didn’t drag you down that hallway and into this room. We’re not children here. We’re talking about joining forces to get an important job done, even if it means siding with the Russians and ruining a distinguished military career. What did you think we’d do—shake hands on it? Sign a contract? Cross our hearts and hope to die? Not on your life. Now, if you don’t want to do this, you let me know right now, and we’ll both go back to our offices and responsibilities and forget this meeting ever took place.”

  “What is this shit—?”

  “Don’t give me the innocent-waif routine either, Gardner. I know this is the way politics is played in Louisiana—don’t tell me you’ve never played it like this in Florida or Washington. We’re going to do it, right here, right now, or you can just tuck your tail between your legs and crawl back to your nice safe cozy apartment down the hall. What’s it going to be?” When he didn’t answer, she sighed, shook her head, and tried to step around him…

  …but when she felt his arm across her chest and his hand on her breast, she knew she had him. He pulled her close, grasped her behind the head with his other hand, and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply, roughly. She returned the kiss just as forcibly, her hand finding his crotch, massaging him impatiently. Their lips parted, and she smiled at him confidently, assuredly. “That’s not going to be enough, Mr. President, and you know it,” she said. She smiled at his quizzical expression, darkly this time, confidently, and his mouth opened when he realized what she meant, what she wanted. “Well?”

  He scowled at her, then moved his hands back to her breasts, then to her shoulders, pushing her down. “Let’s seal the deal, Senator,” he said, leaning back against the Grant conference table, steadying himself.

  “Good boy. Get over here.” She dropped to her knees and quickly began to undo his belt and pants. “My, my, look what we have here. Are you sure you don’t have a little coonass in you, Mr. President?” He didn’t reply as she began her vigorous, rhy
thmic ministrations.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A man who has to be convinced to act before he acts is not a man of action…. You must act as you breathe.

  —GEORGE CLEMENCEAU

  ABOARD ARMSTRONG SPACE STATION

  THE NEXT MORNING, EAST COAST TIME

  “Joining us live from Armstrong Space Station, orbiting two hundred some odd miles above Earth, is a man that needs no introduction: Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan,” the cable news morning show host began. “General, thanks for joining us today. The question everyone wants an answer to, of course, is: How are you, sir?”

  There was a second or two delay because of the satellite relay, but Patrick was accustomed to waiting those few seconds to make sure he wasn’t talking over the host. “It’s nice to be with you, Megyn,” Patrick responded. He was Velcroed as usual to the station commander’s console, wearing his trademark black flight suit with black insignia. “Thanks for having me on the show again. I’m doing fine, thank you. I feel pretty good.”

  “All of America is relieved to see you up and around, General. Have they determined what exactly happened?”

  “According to Navy Captain George Summers at Walter Reed National Medical Center, who reviewed all my tests remotely from up here, it’s called long-QT syndrome, Megyn,” Patrick replied. “That’s an infrequent prolongation of the electrical activation and inactivation of the heart’s ventricles, caused by stress or shock. Apparently, other than eyesight, it’s one of the most common disqualifying conditions in the astronaut corps.”

  “So you’ve been disqualified from flying ever again?”

  “Well, I hope I won’t be,” Patrick said. “Officially I’m not really an astronaut in the conventional sense. I’m hoping that the docs will determine that incapacitation due to long-QT syndrome is most likely to occur just while traveling in space and won’t stop me from all other flying activities.”