Retired Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott smiled, noticing Samson’s discomfort at his presence with undisguised amusement. “Peachy, Earthmover, just peachy,” he replied, and took Samson’s hand in his.
There it was again, Samson thought grimly—that irritating cocksure attitude. Samson was not sure exactly how old Elliott was, probably in his early sixties, but he had the demeanor and attitude of a young, spoiled brat, of a guy who just knew he was going to get his way. Medium height, medium build, still as healthy-looking in a business suit as ever—even with the leg. Samson’s eyes wandered down to Elliott’s right leg, barely visible behind the desk. It looked normal under the nicely tailored suit, but Samson knew it was not normal—it was artificial. Very high-tech, fully articulating, it had been good enough to get Elliott re-cleared for flying duties back when he was in the Air Force—but it was still very artificial.
Elliott saw Samson checking out his leg. He smiled that irritatingly smug grin and said, “Yep, still have the appliance onboard, Earthmover.” He flexed his foot around in a circle, an incredible feat for a prosthetic device—it truly did look real. “It only hurts when I think about what’s happening to my Air Force.” Samson chuckled, but the joke was DOA— no one, not even Elliott, was smiling.
Elliott had always been this way, Samson remembered—grim, demanding, headstrong to the point of being reactionary. A former Strategic Air Command bomb wing commander, Pentagon staffer, and expert in strategic bombing and weapons, Brad Elliott had been living the dream that Terrill Samson had harbored for many years—to be universally acknowledged as the expert, the one that everyone, from the line crewdogs to the President of the United States, called on for answers to difficult questions and problems. Elliott was a protege of strategic nuclear aerial warfare visionaries such as Curtis E. LeMay and Russell Dougherty, and a contemporary of modern conventional strategic airpower leaders such as Mike Loh and Don Aldridge, the true proponents of long-range air- power. It was Elliott who had engineered the hasty but ultimately successful rebirth of the B-l bomber, developed new cruise missile technology for the B-52, and kept the B-2 stealth bomber on track through its long and expensive trek through the halls of Congress when it had been a deep “black” program that could be canceled in the blink of an eye.
Rising quickly through the ranks, Brad Elliott had become director of Air Force plans and programs at the Pentagon, then deputy commander of the Strategic Air Command. He had been well on his way to a fourth star and command of SAC, and possibly back to the Pentagon as Air Force chief of staff, when ... he’d suddenly dropped almost completely out of sight. He’d surfaced only once, as a military advisor to the abortive U.S. Border Security Force, but he’d been suddenly so far under cover, wrapped in an airtight cocoon of secrecy of which Samson had never seen the like, then, now, or ever since.
Elliott’s name was linked to dozens of dramatic, highly classified military operations and programs supposedly originating from the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, the top-secret research and testing facility in the deserts of south-central Nevada known as “Dreamland.” Many risky, bold military operations all over the world had Brad Elliott’s signature style on them: small, powerful, high-tech air attacks aimed directly into the heart of the enemy, usually involving heavily modified bombers. Although he didn’t know for certain, Samson was sure that Brad Elliott and the crewdogs at HAWC had been behind unbelievable military successes from central America to Lithuania to the Philippines.
Well, here he was again. Brad Elliott was now a civilian, working on classified Air Force programs as a senior vice president of Sky Masters, Inc. Elliott had been shit-canned, forced to retire, after a major spy scandal had shut down HAWC and shoved military research programs back at least a decade. But, as always, Brad Elliott had landed on his feet, cocky as ever. No one in Washington liked him, not even his advocates—like the President of the United States, for example. But he had this mystique, this air of complete command, of prescience. He was known as the man to turn to, plain and simple. You didn’t have to like him, but you had better get him working on your problem.
Samson decided to ignore him for the moment, and he turned and shook hands warmly with the third passenger. “Patrick, good to see you again,” he said to retired Air Force Colonel Patrick McLanahan.
“Same here, sir,” McLanahan said in return. Now, here was a kid he could get to like, Samson thought. McLanahan was, pure and simple, the best pilot-trained navigator-bombardier in the United States, probably the best in the world. He had been an engineer, designer, and team chief at HAWC, working as one of Brad Elliott’s supersecret whiz kids, designing aircraft and weapons that would someday be used in wars. Like Elliott, McLanahan had been forced to accept an early retirement in 1996 in the wake of the Kenneth Francis James spy scandal and the HAWC closing. Even though McLanahan had risked his life to bring the Soviet deep-cover agent Maraklov back from Central America before he had a chance to escape to Russia with a stolen secret Air Force experimental aircraft, he’d been sacrificed for the good of the service. McLanahan and Elliott had been close friends for many years.
But unlike Brad Elliott, Patrick McLanahan got the job done without pissing the leadership off, without copping an attitude. When the President had wanted someone to head up a secret aerial strike unit under the Intelligence Support Agency to counter Iranian aggression in the Persian Gulf, he hadn’t turned to Brad Elliott, the acknowledged expert in long-range bomber tactics—he specifically had not wanted Elliott involved in the secret project, although Elliott had planned and executed many such operations. The President’s staff instead had turned to Elliott’s protege, McLanahan. And the young Californian^ who looked more like a young college professor or corporate lawyer than an aerial assassin, had come through brilliantly, taking a modified B-2 Spirit stealth bomber halfway around the world to nearly single-handedly shut down the newly rebuilt Iranian war machine. Now McLanahan was getting a reputation as the “go-to” guy when the shooting started, even over well-qualified active-duty crewdogs.
“So, what do you have for us, Earthmover?” Brad Elliott asked, rubbing his hands in exaggerated anticipation. “Are we going after the North Korean chemical weapons plants? We going to polish up in Iran? Someone tried to whack the Iranian military chief of staff Buzhazi and missed— let us take a shot at him. And that ex-Russian carrier is in the South China Sea, on its way to Hong Kong—we should sink that thing before it gets within striking range of Taiwan. Rumor has it that it’s fully operational and carrying.”
Samson ignored Elliott for the moment—hard to do, since they were sitting right across from each other—and turned to Jon Masters instead. “I take it that Brad here is part of your team, Dr. Masters? I wasn’t made aware of that.”
“We’ve got five of the eight Megafortresses flying now, General,” Masters said. “We need experienced crews.”
“The Air Combat Command guys you sent need at least six months of training time,” McLanahan interjected. “They’re good sticks, and they can certainly handle the beast, but the systems are unlike anything they’ve experienced before. And we’re changing the systems, too, so we put them to work as engineers and test pilots while they’re getting checked out on the plane.” He paused, searching Terrill Samson’s face for any signs of difficulty. “Brad Elliott is the Megafortress. He’s the creator, the progenitor.” Samson was silent, his mouth a hard line on his face. “Problem, Terrill?”
“Terrill thinks the President’s going to have a cow when he sees me,” Elliott answered for the big three-star general. He turned to McLanahan.
“We’re going to meet the President—didn’t you know that? I called the White House communications office and confirmed the meeting. That cute V.P. Whiting, Chastain, Freeman, Hartman, Collier from NS A I think, and George Balboa, that old Navy squid sack of—”
“Brad ...”
“We go way back, me and Martindale, so don’t worry about it, big gu
y,” Elliott interrupted, watching Samson’s face turn puffy with anger. “We’ll have a good meeting, and we’ll have all the right answers.”
“The President specifically didn’t want you for the Iran operation,” Samson said coldly, “because you have this knack for stepping on toes, for sticking your face in where it doesn’t belong. Apparently, retirement hasn’t mellowed you one bit.” He paused, then shook his head. “The President asked only for Jon and Patrick. Sorry, Brad—I’m not going to bring you into the meeting. I’ll mention to General Freeman that you’re on board—he can notify the President.”
“Sheesh, you make it sound like Jon hired Saddam Hussein to fly for him,” Elliott said sarcastically. “I’m not trying to take over this operation, Earthmover. I advise the kid here on how to design, build, and fly the Megafortress. That’s all.”
Samson ignored Elliott again and said to Masters and McLanahan, “Jon, Patrick, he’s your man, so you deal with him. I’ll back you all the way, but it’s still my opinion that Brad’s presence in the White House or the Pentagon will only hurt your chances of getting this operation approved.”
“You still haven’t told us what operation we’re being considered for, General,” Jon Masters said. “What is it?”
“You’ll be conducting a maritime reconnaissance operation in the Formosa Straits,” Samson replied. “I’ll run it down.”
“Shit, you don’t mean we’ll be working for Admiral ‘Tight-Ass’ Allen at Pacific Command?” Elliott interjected wearily. “Man, I was glad to get out of the service just so I didn’t have to listen to him bitch about the Philippines conflict. Now we’ve got to listen to him again? And with Balboa on as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, we’ll spend half our time arguing over who’s got the bigger cruise missiles.”
“You still get your orders from me,” Samson said. “I report directly to Philip Freeman at the White House, who will report to the NCA.”
“You just make sure Allen or Balboa don’t try to snatch this mission,” Elliott said, admonishing Samson with that cocksure grin again. “If they get control, they’ll screw it up for sure. We’ve got to have maximum autonomy out there, and you know the squids aren’t going to allow us to have it.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement, Brad,” Samson said, his lips taut. Dammit, the guy was a real pain, but he sure knew the score in Washington—Elliott had correctly guessed who would probably be in the real chain of command in this operation. “I signed for the Megafortresses when I took them out of mothballs to let you characters play with them, and I picked Eighth Air Force crews to fly them, so I think I’ll keep operational command. But if you’re harboring any thoughts about maybe making the EB-52 an operational weapon system, play nice with the rest of the kids in the pool. Follow me? Any problem with that, Brad? Is that enough full disclosure for you?”
“No problem, Earthmover, none whatsoever,” Elliott said. “Actually, I’m happy to have you in the loop—even though you are responsible for eliminating all the BUFFs from the Air Force inventory. One of the greatest aerial attack platforms ever devised, and you, of all people, allowed it to be retired on your watch.”
“Let’s not get into a discussion about who’s responsible for any good—or any bad—stuff happening in the Air Force or the bomber world in recent history,” Samson growled, trying hard to control the sudden flush of anger rising up from his chest. He knew his comment had hit Elliott, but the bastard did not show it. Samson knew that Elliott knew that the downfall of HAWC had put air weapon research and development back several years and may have even ensured the downfall of the heavy bomber. So there was plenty of blame to go around.
“The bottom line is, boys, you got your chance to show what a modified B-52 bomber can do,” Samson said. “Let me deal with Washington—I want you to loudly kick some ass out there, then bring yourselves home in one piece.”
THE WHITE HOUSE OVAL OFFICE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY, 30 MAY 1997, 1827 HOURS ET
“Mr. President, may I present Ambassador Kuo Han-min, the new representative of the independent Republic of China,” U.S. Secretary of State Jeffrey Hartman announced, as he was ushered into the Oval Office. Already in the room with the President of the United States, Kevin Martindale, were Vice President Ellen Christine Whiting, National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, Secretary of Defense Arthur Chastain, and White House Chief of Staff Jerrod Hale. “Ambassador Kuo, the President of the United States, Mr. Kevin Martindale.”
The two shook hands, Ambassador Kuo bowing deeply, then presenting his blue leather credentials folder directly to the President. Kuo appeared a bit older than the President, with thick dark hair, thick wire- rimmed glasses, and a thin frame. “This is an honor for my country and for myself, Mr. President,” he said.
“Good to see you again, Ambassador,” the President said, as he handed the folder to Hartman. The two had met during a Republican Party fund-raiser in Washington a year earlier; Kuo Han-min had been a Taiwanese high-tech aerospace industry trade lobbyist at the time, whose organization had made several very large contributions to the Party to help with Martindale’s election campaign. The President steered Kuo around, where several White House photographers recorded the historic handshake—the arrival of the first Taiwanese ambassador in Washington since the United States had broken diplomatic ties with the exiled Nationalist Chinese government on Formosa in 1979 in favor of the Communist regime on the mainland.
The President made introductions to his other advisors in the room as the photographers departed, then offered him a seat. “Unfortunately,” the President began after everyone took seats, “our first meeting here has to be a working one. We feel your country is in serious danger, and we’d like to fill you in as quickly as possible as to what we know, and discuss what we should do about it. Jeffrey, you spoke with China’s foreign minister just a few moments ago. Bring us up to date.”
Hartman stood behind one of the sofas surrounding the coffee table and said, “Foreign Minister Qian of the PRC says that the movement of ships along the Chinese coast is normal, preplanned activity. As far as any threats towards Taiwan, Qian says, in effect, ‘Mind your own business.’ Any activities between the People’s Republic and Chinese Taipei, as he continues to refer to the ROC, is a quote-unquote ‘internal matter.’ ”
“You told them to keep their hands off the ROC until we can meet and talk about this?” the President asked. “We just recognized the Republic of China’s independence, for Christ’s sake! Attacking them now would be a slap in the face towards us.”
“In no uncertain terms, sir,” Hartman replied. “I sent him your letter, which he had received, and explained that the United States would consider any military action against Taiwan as a seriously destabilizing and overtly hostile act, and would respond with any means at our disposal, including military means, to help bring stability back to the region. I plan on meeting with Foreign Minister Qian in Beijing in three days; hopefully I can get in to see President Jiang as well.”
“Good,” the President said. He stayed at his desk, quietly contemplating something, then rose to his feet and started pacing the floor. “Ambassador Kuo, any thoughts?”
“Sir, President Lee Teng-hui of the Republic of China believes as you do—that an invasion of Quemoy, the Pescadores, Matsu, or even Formosa Tao is imminent,” Ambassador Kuo said. “He has ordered the mobilization of reserves and arming the militia. He is standing firm—he is not withdrawing any troops from Quemoy or Matsu. In fact, he is increasing them—he is flying in a thousand additional troops a day to both islands, and is shipping in additional air defense units. He hasvordered the entire navy at sea to counter the Communist fleet’s movements.” “You’re going to stand up to the Chinese army?” Secretary of Defense Chastain asked incredulously. “Even if the PRC doesn’t invade, your army could suffer substantial losses.”
“We have made the decision to fight and die to the very last man, woman, and child to maintain our independenc
e,” Kuo said resolutely. “We must stand and fight, or die as a country. We have chosen our way.” He paused for a moment, then looked the President square in the eyes and said, “Our concern is not with the Communists, but with the United States. You have declared your support for the Republic of China, but we understand that there is much to be done before you may legally recognize my country.”
“That’s being taken care of, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “The bill we sponsored repealing the 1979 Taiwan Relations Act comes up for a vote next week, and we expect to be successful. Our support for the Republic of China is firm and unwavering.”
“Yet we understand that you risk much politically by such action,” Kuo said. “Your country’s trade with the mainland could be in jeopardy— if the Communists shut the United States out, it will cost you at least thirty billion dollars a year. But worse than a trade war is the prospect of military action, of a large Pacific conflict.”
“Ambassador, everyone wants trade with China, so they all look the other way when China does something to one of its neighbors,” the President said angrily. “My father died fighting the Chinese in North Korea when I was a kid—everyone forgets that war and Chinas involvement. Everyone also forgets that we almost went to war—nuclear war—with Red China in 1955 over their bombardment of Taiwan. I was a kid, just getting over the death of my father in North Korea, when mainland China started shelling Quemoy—-Jesus, I thought World War Three was going to start any day, that the Communists were going to sweep across the planet just like we saw that red stain sweep across the globe in the propaganda films. Throughout the sixties, Red China was just as much a threat as the Soviet Union—I remember China supporting North Vietnam and China imprisoning American POWs. The Soviet Union and China were both our hated enemies.
“The death of Stalin and Maos break with the Soviets changed our strategy,” the President went on. “In the rush to counterbalance the Soviet threat, we embraced the Chinese Communist government and turned our backs on democratic, capitalist governments like yours. No more. The United States is not going to wait patiently a hundred years for mainland China to adopt a free-market society, and in the meantime sit idly by while they destroy the Republic of China, gobble up oil fields in the South China Sea, refuse to enforce international copyright laws, and threaten free trade with the rest of Asia. America can’t put off the decision any longer: we’re either for an independent, democratic Republic of China, or we’re for the hope that mainland China will keep Taiwan capitalist and free while they absorb you, like they’re absorbing Hong Kong.”
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