Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  But as he listened, Mallory saw the first unmanned B-1 bomber leave the ground and streak across the night sky, trailing four long afterburner flames behind it, followed just a few short seconds later by the second. “Ho-lee shit,” he cried aloud as the twin afterburner booms rolled over him. “What in hell is going on?”

  It took almost a minute for the noise to subside enough so he could talk on the radio: “Control, Panther, Detail One, the bombers have launched, repeat, they’ve launched. All available patrol and response units, report to the Alpha Seven special detachment area with restraints and transport. Control, notify the base hospital and all command units that a special security enforcement operation has commenced.” His ears were buzzing and his head felt as if it was going to explode from the tension and sheer disbelief over what had just happened. “Notify all responding units that there are two of those CID robot units that assisted the bombers to launch and are armed and dangerous. Do not approach the CID units, only report and observe. Do you copy?”

  The two bombers were just bright dots in the night sky, and soon those telltales winked out as the afterburners were cut off. This was unbelievable, Mallory told himself over and over again, simply unbelievable. Those Saber guys had to be nuts or on drugs, he thought, wiping sweat from his forehead. The robot guys had to be crazy…or maybe the robots had been hijacked by terrorists? Maybe they weren’t Air Force after all, but fucking Muslim terrorists, or maybe Kurdish terrorists, or maybe…?

  And then he realized he wasn’t thinking all this, but screaming it at the top of his lungs! His skin felt as if it was going to burst into flames, and his head felt ready to explode! What in God’s name was happening? He turned…

  …and then he saw the shape of one of the robots, about thirty yards away, slowly heading toward him. He raised his radio to his suddenly sweat-stained lips: “Control, Detail One, one of the CID units is heading toward me, and I am engaging,” he said, wiping yet another rivulet of sweat away from his eyes. “Request backup, Alpha Seven and Taxiway Alpha, get backup out here now.” He unholstered his sidearm, but he couldn’t summon enough strength to lift it. The burning sensation increased, completely disrupting his vision and creating an intense headache, the pain finally forcing him to his knees. “Control…Control, how do you copy?”

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant Mallory, but no one is here to take your call right now,” he heard a strange voice say. “But don’t worry. You and your friends will wake up in a nice cozy cell, and you won’t have a care in the world.” The robot advanced toward him menacingly, the muzzle of the grenade launcher aimed right between his eyes…but then, just before his vision completely shut down in a cloud of stars, he saw the robot wave “bye-bye” to him with his huge armored but incredibly lifelike fingers. “Nightie-night, Sergeant Mallory,” he heard over the radio lying somewhere on the ground, and then everything went blank.

  “Odin, Headbanger, Genesis, this is Saber, we have control of the base,” Lieutenant Daniels reported a few minutes later. “Those new microwave emitters built into the CID units worked great out to thirty yards or so.” The nonlethal microwave emitters broadcasted an intense feeling of heat, pain, disorientation, and eventually unconsciousness but did no actual injury to a human target. “The bombers are away and we’re securing the perimeter. The base commander is pretty sore at us but he opened up his hidden liquor cabinet so he’s not quite as verbal as before.”

  “Roger that,” Patrick McLanahan responded from Armstrong Space Station. “Thank you, Saber.”

  “Our pleasure, sir,” Daniels responded. “Maybe we can all share a cell in Leavenworth together.”

  “Or Supermax, if we’re not so lucky,” Rebecca added.

  “We received a coded locator beacon and status data dump from the Black Stallion’s passenger module,” Luger said. “It’s intact, its parachute and impact attenuation bags have deployed, and it’s coming down in eastern Iran, about a hundred and twenty miles northwest of Herat, Afghanistan.”

  “Thank God.”

  “No indications if anyone inside made it yet, but the module is intact and still pressurized. We’ve got an Army Special Forces team in Herat gearing up for a rescue mission.”

  “The bombers will be in maximum SkySTREAK launch position in sixty minutes, and overhead in ninety—if they’re not jumped by Russian fighters again,” Rebecca Furness said. “We’ll be on the lookout for them this time.”

  “That’s probably the same amount of time it’ll take the Special Forces team to chopper in—if they get permission to launch,” Luger added.

  “I’ll speak to the commander myself,” Patrick said. “I don’t have much pull with the Army, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute—are you boys forgetting something?” Rebecca Furness interjected. “We just took over a Turkish-NATO military base by force and ignored direct orders from the commander-in-chief. You guys are acting as if that’s no big deal. They are going to come after us, all of us—even the general, even though he’s up on a space station—and they are going to haul us off to prison. What do you propose we do about this?”

  “I propose we rescue our crewmembers on the ground in Iran, then hunt down any parts of that anti-spacecraft laser the Russians fired at us, General Furness,” Patrick said immediately. “Anything else is background noise at this point.”

  “‘Background noise’? Do you call the Turkish and U.S. governments—possibly our own military—coming after us just ‘background noise’? We’ll be lucky if they just send in an infantry battalion to drag us out of here. Do you intend on continuing to disregard orders and take down anyone who gets in your way, General? Are we going to war against our own people now?”

  “Rebecca, I’m not ordering you to do anything—I’m asking,” Patrick said. “We have crewmembers down in Iran, the Russians blasting away with a laser, and the President doing nothing about any of it except telling us to stand down. Now if you don’t want to help, just say so, recall the Vampires, and call the Pentagon.”

  “And tell them what, Patrick—that you forced me to launch those planes? You’re two hundred miles up on the space station, probably on the other side of the planet. I’m already committed, General. I’m screwed. My career is over.”

  “Rebecca, you did what you did because we have friends and fellow warriors on the ground in Iran, and we wanted to save and protect them if possible,” Patrick said. “You did it because you had the forces standing by and ready to respond. If we’d followed orders, the survivors would be captured, tortured, then killed—you know it, and I know it. You acted. That’s more than I can say for the Pentagon and our commander-in-chief. If we’re going to lose our freedom, I’d rather it be because we tried to make sure our fellow airmen kept theirs.”

  Rebecca fell silent for a long moment, then shook her head ruefully. “I hate it when you’re right, General,” she said. “Maybe I can tell them that you threatened to blast me with Skybolt if I didn’t do as you ordered.”

  “Maybe they’ll laugh so hard they’ll forget what we did.”

  “We need a plan, General,” Rebecca said. “The Turks are going to send a force to retake Batman Air Base, and if they don’t there’s an entire U.S. airborne division in Germany that could be dropping on our heads within half a day. We’ve only got three CID units and four Tin Men at Batman, plus the security and maintenance troops. And we all know that Battle Mountain and probably Elliott will be next.”

  “We should move the Air Battle Force units to Dreamland,” Patrick said. “We can hold that base a lot easier than Battle Mountain.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying, Patrick?” Rebecca asked incredulously. “You’re conspiring to organize and direct U.S. military forces against the orders of the commander-in-chief, illegally marshal them under your own command without any authority, and directly oppose and engage with American military forces. That’s sedition! That’s treason! You won’t go to prison, Patrick—you could be executed!”


  “Thanks for the legal primer, Rebecca,” Patrick said. “I’m hoping it won’t come to this. After the survivors are rescued and the Russian anti-spacecraft laser is destroyed or at least discovered, all of this will be over. I understand if you don’t want to do as I suggest, Rebecca. But if you want to take the Air Battle Force and assist, you can’t stay at Battle Mountain. They could be rolling up outside to take you down as we speak.”

  Everyone on the secure video teleconference could see the tortured expression on Rebecca Furness’s face. Out of all of them, she probably had the most to lose in this, and it was obvious she didn’t want this. But just a moment later, she nodded. “All right. In for a dime, in for a dollar—in for twenty to life. Maybe the court-martial will take pity on me because I’m a woman. I’ll get the planes moving right away, Dave. Make room for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dave Luger responded from Elliott Air Force Base. Then: “What about the personnel and equipment at Batman Air Base, Muck? The Turks and our own guys could be waiting for them to return…if Turkey doesn’t try to shoot them down when they cross back into Turkish airspace.”

  “I’ve got an idea for them, Dave,” Patrick said. “It’s going to be risky, but it’s our only chance…”

  PRIVATE RESIDENCE OF LEONID ZEVITIN, BOLTINO, RUSSIA

  THAT SAME TIME

  “Calm yourself, Excellency,” Leonid Zevitin said. He was in his private study with Foreign Minister Alexandra Hedrov, making phone calls and sending secure e-mails to military and diplomatic units around the world alerting them to the events unfolding over Iran. The phone call from Iranian supreme leader Hassan Mohtaz happened much later than expected, but that was undoubtedly because it was probably very hazardous for anyone to wake the guy up with bad news.

  “Calm myself? We are under attack—and it is because of you!” Mohtaz cried. “I allowed you to put your weapons on my soil because you said it would protect my country. It has done just the opposite! Four bombs have destroyed one of my Revolutionary Guards Corps bases, and now my air defense forces tell me that American bombers are flitting freely across our skies!”

  “There are no bombers over Iran, Excellency—we have seen to that,” Zevitin said. “As far as your base: remember that Russia paid to refurbish and disguise that base so we could use it temporarily, and we agreed that it would be turned over to you after we were done with it…”

  “And now you are done with it because the Americans have destroyed it!” Mohtaz said. “Will you leave us a smoking hole in the ground now?”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. President!”

  “I want anti-aircraft weapons, and I want them now!” Mohtaz screamed. “You told me six units of the S-300 and another dozen Tor-M1 missile vehicles were waiting for pre-delivery checkout in Turkmenistan. How long ago was that, Zevitin? Eight, ten weeks? How long does it take to unpack a few missile launchers, turn them on, and see if all the pretty lights come on? When are you going to deliver on your promises?”

  “They will be delivered, Mr. President, do not worry,” Zevitin said. He didn’t want to deliver missiles, especially the advanced S-300 strategic anti-aircraft and anti-ballistic missile system, until he was sure he could not get any more concessions from American President Joseph Gardner in exchange. Zevitin was perfectly willing to let Mohtaz rant and rave if he could get the Americans to agree not to put troops in Poland or the Czech Republic, or agree to veto any resolution in the United Nations that might allow Kosovo to break away from Serbia, in return. Those negotiations were in a critical stage, and he wasn’t going to let Mohtaz screw them up.

  “I want them now, Zevitin, or you can take all of your planes and tanks and radars back to Russia!” Mohtaz said. “I want the S-300 and Tor protecting Mashhad tomorrow. I want an impenetrable shield of missiles around that city when I return in triumph with my exiled government.”

  “That is impossible, Excellency. It takes time to test those advanced weapon systems properly before deployment. I will have Minister Ostenkov and chief of staff General Furzyenko brief your military advisers on—”

  “No! No! No more briefings and wasted time!” Mohtaz shouted. “I want them deployed immediately or I will see to it that the entire world knows of your duplicity! What would your American friends say if they learn that you agreed to sell Iran anti-aircraft missiles, chemical weapons, and anti-personnel rockets?”

  “You agreed not to share any information…”

  “And you agreed to give me anti-aircraft missiles, Zevitin,” Mohtaz interjected. “Break your promises further, and we are finished. Your infantry and tanks can rot in Turkmenistan for all I care.” And at that the connection was broken.

  TORBAT-E-JAM UNITED NATIONS REFUGEE CAMP, IRAN

  A SHORT TIME LATER

  “Easy now, lass, you’re hurt. Don’t move, eh?”

  Captain Charlie Turlock opened her eyes…and immediately what little vision she had was shattered in a cloud of stars as the pain shot through her lower back, up through her spine, and into her brain. She gasped, the pain doubled, and she cried aloud. She felt a cool hand hold her forehead. “My God, my God…!”

  “Believe it or not, lass, you shouting in pain is music to me ears,” the man said, his thick Irish brogue slowly becoming clearer and soothing in a way, “because if you were’na cryin’ out so, I’d believe your spine was broken. Where does it hurt, lass?”

  “My back…my lower back,” Charlie gasped. “It feels like…like my whole back is on fire.”

  “On fire…that’s funny, lass,” the man said. “I’m na surprised.” Charlie looked at the man in confusion. She could see the stethoscope dangling around his neck now. He was very young, like an older teenager, with closely cut reddish-blond hair, bright green eyes, and an ever-present smile—but his eyes showed deep concern. The glare of a single overhead lightbulb hurt her eyes, but she was thankful that at least her eyes were working. “You might say you’re an angel from heaven…or maybe a fallen angel?”

  “I don’t understand, Doctor…Doctor…”

  “Miles. Miles McNulty,” the man replied. “I’m na a doctor, but everyone out here believes I am, and that’s good enough for all of us for now.”

  Charlie nodded. The pain was still there, but she was starting to get accustomed to it, and found that it even subsided a bit if she moved just so. “Where are we, Mr. McNulty?” she asked.

  “Och, c’mon, lass, you’re makin’ me feel old callin’ me by what they call me old man,” Miles said. “Call me Miles, or Wooz if you like.”

  “Wooz?”

  “Some of the docs gave me the nickname after I got here—I guess I’d get a little woozy seein’ some of the shit that goes on around here: the blood, the putrid water, the injuries, the infant deaths, the starvation, the damned evil that someone can do to another human bein’ in the name of God,” Miles said, his young features momentarily turning hard and gray.

  Charlie chuckled. “Sorry.” She was pleased when his smile returned. “I’ll call you Miles. I’m Charlie.”

  “Charlie? I know I’ve been here in the desert for a while, lass, but you na look like a ‘Charlie’ to me.”

  “Long story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”

  “Love to hear it, Charlie.” He found a bottle in his jacket pocket and shook out some tablets. “Here. It’s just over-the-counter NSAIDs—all the pain medication I dare give you until I do some more tests to find out if you’re bleeding internally or if anything’s broken.”

  A large armored hand reached out and completely surrounded the man’s hand—Charlie couldn’t turn her head, but she knew who it was. “I’ll have a look at those first,” he heard Chris Wohl’s electronically synthesized voice say.

  “Ah, it speaks,” Miles said. He took his hand and the pills back. Wohl undid his helmet, exercising a kink out of his neck. “Pardon me for saying, bub, but ye looked better with the helmet on,” he quipped, smiling broadly until he saw Wohl’s warning glare. He put the tablets back int
o the bottle, shook it up, took one out, and popped it in his mouth. “I’m tryin’ to help the lady, na hurt her.” Wohl allowed him to give Charlie three tablets and a sip of water.

  “How do you feel?” Wohl asked.

  “Not bad if I don’t…move,” she said, gasping through a surge of pain. “I can’t believe we made it.” Wohl’s warning glance reminded her not to talk any more about what they had just experienced. “How long have we been here?”

  “Not long,” Wohl responded. “About an hour.”

  “Where’s Three?” Wohl motioned to Charlie’s left. Charlie’s mouth instantly turned dry. The pain forgotten, she followed the big Marine’s glance beside her…and she saw the other Tin Man, Wayne Macomber, lying on another table beside her as if laid out on a funeral bier. “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “No, but he’s been unconscious awhile,” Wohl said.

  “I asked your comrade here if there’s an on-off switch or latch or can opener to peel him open and check him out—I’m not even sure if it’s a ‘him’ or a machine.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here as soon as possible,” Wohl said.

  “I think I’d like to give the lass a look, if you don’t mind,” Miles said to Wohl. “Ten minutes to look you over first, eh?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “All right, all right.” He turned to Charlie, smiling confidently. “I hate to do this while you’re hurting, lass, but it’ll help me isolate the injured areas. Ready?”

  “I guess so.”

  “There’s a game lass. I’m going to try not to move you too much myself, so try to move yourself along with me as much as you can—you’re the best judge about how much is too much, yes? We’ll start with the head and work our way down. Ready? Here we go.” With surprising gentleness, McNulty examined her head, turning it ever so carefully, stooping down with a flashlight as low as he could go to look behind her head and neck without her having to turn her head as much.