by Dale Brown
Rebecca looked uncomfortable for a moment, then replied, “Sir, General McLanahan has always been an unconventional thinker. Ever since he first set foot on my base in Reno, he baffles, irritates, and frustrates me with the ideas he comes up with and the gadgets he devises to get the job done. I call it unconventional; some might call it innovative. I don’t know how he does it, but he gets the job done.”
“Damning with faint praise?” Goff remarked. “I’m not following you, General. Is this whole idea something that needs to be explored further, or do you just want to get your base and wing and planes back and put together your unit the way you see fit?”
“Sir, I don’t quite know what to make of this unmanned-attack-plane idea,” she replied. “I’ve been training and leading aircrews into battle for twelve years. In my estimation a human being behind the controls will always be better than a machine. Had we not been at the controls of that EB-1, I feel fairly certain — not positive, but fairly certain — that we could have lost a two-hundred-million-dollar plane.”
She paused for a moment, then added, “And yes, I’ll admit, I was very aware of the fact that it was my plane, one of only a few that belonged to my wing. This is my first wing-level command, something I’ve always wanted, and, frankly, I don’t relish sharing the spotlight with Patrick McLanahan. General McLanahan has an annoying habit of smelling like he came out of a French whorehouse even after emerging out of absolute train wrecks. Pardon me, sir, but what I meant to say is—”
“We know what you mean, General. We’ve been there,” Thorn said with a faint smile.
“At one point in our nation’s history, sir, they said a woman didn’t have what was needed to take a warplane into combat,” Rebecca went on. “They said women were too nurturing, not strong enough, not aggressive enough, too overcome by emotions and feelings and too ingrained as the ones who give birth and build nests to make effective destroyers. I’m happy to say we proved them wrong.”
“So what are you saying, General?”
“I’m saying that General McLanahan’s project needs more study and more experimentation,” she replied. “One test flight is not enough to prove his theories either way. And… and it only makes sense to use my wing’s aircraft, facilities, and budget to continue the experiments. General McLanahan and General Luger have been working with my wing’s aircraft for years. We’re still in the process of developing an EB-1C Vampire training program for instructors. We’re at least six months from finalizing a curriculum and training students. Our aircraft and facilities are underutilized.”
“So what are you recommending?” Goff asked.
“I’m recommending that my unit’s budget be recast and our mission redefined to make General McLanahan’s Air Battle Force concept operational as soon as possible,” Rebecca said. “If it works, we may never need to send an American into harm’s way again. The fliers I know consider it their duty to fly into harm’s way, and as long as they know and understand the mission and the objective, they’ll do it time after time. But that’s my old-school opinion. If the future of air combat means remotely piloted planes and satellite-guided, unmanned, bomb-carrying drones, then I’d be proud to have my wing lead the way.”
Robert Goff nodded in agreement — but Thomas Thorn looked at first confused, then angry.
“Listen, I’m sure I’m not getting the whole story here,” he said, “but I’ve seen what I came here to see. I’m still going to do an investigation on whether or not you misappropriated any funds, General McLanahan, or whether your use of private experimental aircraft puts the government at risk.” He looked at all three of them, then added, “I do like the analysis you did regarding Central Asia, and I think you might have some weapon systems here that can be of use if this incident starts to get serious. Secretary Goff, you handle this affair as you see fit.”
“Very good, sir.”
Thorn nodded, then looked the three military officers in the eye. “Maybe you kids aren’t as dishonest, backstabbing, treacherous, and confused as I was led to believe.” And then he paused, looked right at John Long, and stared at him long enough for everyone to fully understand exactly who it was that had led him to believe those things. Long squirmed, but there was nowhere to hide.
“I don’t know what to make of all this, but I can tell you one thing: I don’t like sidewinders. I like my fights out in the open. That’ll be all, Colonel.” Long saluted; Thorn did not return the salute. “Right now I pretty much feel like a damned gopher. Someone show me the fastest way to some sunshine.” David Luger and the head of the Presidential Protection Detail motioned toward the waiting electric cars. “Robert, Maureen, a word with you, please.”
Rebecca Furness went over to Patrick when Goff, Hershel, and the president stepped away to confer among themselves. “You know, I can’t figure you out sometimes, McLanahan,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t you tell them what you think, Patrick?” she asked. “I know you don’t think the plane was in danger. I know for damned sure you don’t think there was a boom strike. In fact, none of the maintenance guys, at Diego Garcia or here, found any evidence of a boom strike.”
“It doesn’t matter what I’d tell them.”
“Doesn’t matter? You know as well as I do that if you told them, they might give you another chance to test your virtual-cockpit stuff….”
“Rebecca, they would expect me to say exactly that. They would expect me to support my program no matter what happened or what my staff report read,” Patrick said. “But I can’t ignore my senior officers. I may not agree with your observations, Rebecca, but I’m not going to tell the National Command Authority that you’re wrong and I’m right, just because I’m wearing two stars. I have more respect for you and your years of experience than that. If you say the test was not successful and the only argument I have is ‘I disagree,’ I’m not going to push a bad position. We live to fight another day.”
The president stepped on board the electric car after a few moments, while Robert Goff and Maureen Hershel went back over to Patrick. “The president is leaving it up to me,” Goff said. “I want this unit made mission-ready as soon as possible. How soon can you have your mission statement, timetable, and budget built, General?”
“We can have it sent to the chairman’s office in two days,” Patrick said.
“Make it one day, Patrick, and I’ll sit down with General Venti and get it moving,” Goff said. “And I want to see your detailed plan for Turkmenistan, should the president decide to intervene. I’m not promising you any more money or very much support, but any plan that doesn’t involve sending in a lot of troops or equipment while still getting the job done will definitely merit the president’s attention.”
“I’ll transmit General Luger’s report to your office immediately, sir.”
“Your damned report frankly scared the shit out of us, General,” Goff added. “The CIA pussyfooted on their report, of course. They either won’t commit to any conclusions or put every possible conclusion, no matter how unlikely, in their summaries. You folks came up with clear observations, logical conclusions, a direct plan of action, realistic problem scenarios, and even some political directions to pursue as we head down the military track. I like that.
“And I believe that the president admired your candor and honesty with each other,” Goff went on. “You two definitely have a history together, and most of it has not been pleasant. You’re both chasing different and most times opposing objectives, but you eventually realize the need to work together so you can achieve them. You haven’t killed each other, so that must mean you have some respect for one another. It’s like mixing hydrogen and oxygen: If you do it wrong, it blows up in your face, and if you do it right, you get life-sustaining water. Just when we think putting you two together is going to blow up in everyone’s faces, you come together and make something happen.” He shook his head and said, “Shit, this mole hole of yours is starting to affect my brain,
McLanahan. I’m starting to sound like Mark Twain’s stupid brother. Let’s get the hell out of this bat cave, Maureen, and let these kids get back to work.”
The last to depart was Maureen Hershel. She shook hands with Patrick McLanahan. “I don’t understand everything about your aircraft and the weapons you have here, General,” she said, “but I’m fascinated with the electronic-armor technology. The power at your disposal with such a system appears immense. One man equals a dozen soldiers — and then some.”
“That’s the idea. Use technology as force multipliers,” Patrick said. “There’s no need to bring a huge security force when one properly equipped man can do the job.”
“Very interesting,” she said. “I might be calling on you for help someday.”
“We’re ready to help any way we can.”
“And”—she looked into his eyes as if uncertain, then went on—“and I don’t want to pry….”
“It’s all right,” Patrick said. “Ask me anything, Miss Deputy Secretary.”
“Please don’t call me that. I’m Maureen to you,” she said.
“Thank you… Maureen.” And for the first time since she met him, McLanahan smiled. It was still a tired, war-weary smile, but it seemed to change the mood of the underground facility as dramatically and as surely as if a giant hand had ripped the place open and let sunshine come streaming in.
“I don’t know what happened with you and your family and President Martindale,” Hershel went on. “I’ve heard the rumors about some of the former president’s activities since leaving office, but I assumed they were just rumors. I would like to extend my sympathy to you, even if I don’t quite know all the circumstances. If you could someday explain it to me, I’d like to hear what happened. Your version of it.”
“It’s not something I’d care to relate, ma’am—”
“Maureen. Please.”
“Maureen, it’s not a story I’d care to tell. But if it would help explain what we do and how we intend to use the Air Battle Force in future conflicts… then, yes, I could tell you what happened.”
“Thank you, General,” she said, touching his arm. “Believe me, it’s not idle curiosity. If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”
“Thank you, Maureen,” Patrick said. “I’ll make myself available to tell you everything — soon.”
“Thank you again.” She paused, then added, “And I suppose I can expect the confirmation hearings to start soon on your nomination as President Thorn’s first national security adviser?”
“I haven’t been asked, and I doubt if I ever will,” Patrick said.
“Your name is still being bandied about on Capitol Hill. I think you’d find a surprising number in Congress ready to support you. President Thorn will never be seen as anyone with a strong military-affairs mind-set, despite his military background. On the other hand, you have a very impressive — and enticingly mysterious — one. Don’t count yourself out too soon.”
“I’m not counting myself in or out at all, Miss Hershel. I’ve got too big a job here.”
“Yes, you do,” she agreed. “I’ll be watching for you in Washington, though. Good luck, General.”
THE FAIRMONT HOTEL, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Days later
So it’s true, Kevin Martindale remarked silently to himself as he entered the luxurious hotel suite. There’s been a shake-up. Kercheval’s gone.
Maureen Hershel got to her feet, put on her best smile, and extended her hand long before she reached her visitor. “President Martindale, welcome,” she said. “I’m Maureen Hershel. I apologize that Secretary Kercheval couldn’t be here, but he asked his staff to brief you and for me to answer any questions you had personally.”
“Thank you.”
Kevin Martindale had a chance to look the woman over as she crossed the opulent Sherwood Suite to greet him. Wearing a conservative but expensively cut suit tailored just above the knee, a silky beige low-cut blouse underneath, and Italian shoes, she looked like a junior partner in a wealthy law firm instead of a State Department official. Her handshake was firm but brief.
“I’m sure I’m in good hands, Miss Hershel. How are you today?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said in a friendly and only slightly officious tone. “Please have a seat. I’m told you wanted to forgo the usual meet-and-greet photos.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Martindale said, in a tone that obviously indicated he didn’t much care if she minded or not.
“Not at all.” She paused for a heartbeat, then asked, “But would you mind telling me why, Mr. President?”
The question took him aback for a moment, but he looked her straight in the eye and replied, “Frankly, I don’t expect you to give me any of the answers I’m looking for. And since this is otherwise not a social visit, I thought it best to skip the usual smiling faces and glad-handing pretexts.”
“I see.” Now it was her turn to look Kevin Martindale over. The young former president of the United States had been a force on the American political scene for many years. He was portrayed as everything President Thomas Thorn was not: brash, headstrong, opinionated, hard-charging, and forceful. It was almost as if the American people, anxious and maybe even fearful of the future emerging because of Thorn’s laissez-faire attitude toward foreign affairs, were wistfully thinking back to the respect and power as portrayed by the government during the Martindale administration.
But only recently had he become a celebrity personality as well. It helped that Kevin Martindale was young, handsome, wealthy, single, and had at one time been one of the most powerful men on earth. His well-publicized divorce while vice president, and his steady stream of starlet girlfriends during his single term as chief executive, only served to keep him in the public eye. But now that he was back in the political hunt, his name and face appeared in all sorts of media outlets these days, not just the supermarket tabloids.
Maureen gave Martindale his choice of seats in the sitting area of the suite — even the armchair opposite hers, as her equal — but instead he chose the far side of the long sofa. She dismissed the official State Department photographer with a polite nod, then, playing the hostess, gestured at a nearby serving cart. “Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Coffee for me,” she said, then sat down in the plush armchair at the head of the sitting area in front of the fireplace. She crossed her legs, held the cup in both hands, and took a sip as her guest made himself comfortable.
Martindale reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a Davidoff Double R Churchill. “Do you mind, Miss Deputy Secretary? I know there’s no smoking in the Fairmont these days, but I also know that Mr. Kercheval enjoys a good cigar, so I brought mine and a few for him.”
“Not at all,” she said, quickly and neutrally.
He clipped his cigar, then, as an afterthought, reached into his pocket and withdrew another. “Do you indulge, Miss Deputy Secretary?”
“No,” she said coolly.
He chuckled with a distinct air of superiority. “Thought I’d better ask. Equality for women should extend to things like fine cigars, should it not?”
“It has nothing to do with equality — just taste,” she responded.
He shrugged, uncertain of what she meant by that, and put the second cigar back in his pocket. He withdrew a silver lighter and was about to touch the flame to his cigar when he stopped in surprise — as Hershel pulled her own cigar from her inside breast pocket.
“But it’s not because I don’t like cigars. I just don’t like those cigars. I prefer Lars Tetens to Davidoffs.” She pulled her own clippers and lighter from her pocket. “The Tesshu Deluxe Robusto is my favorite. Made in New York. I was introduced to them by a German vice air marshal. You’d have thought he’d discovered the New World by how much he raved about them. They take some getting used to, but they are worth the effort.” The pungent aroma of the Lars Teten quickly, easily overpowered
the Davidoff. Martindale couldn’t help but look on in amazement as the woman puffed away happily on the rich, strong cigar.
“I hope you’re having a pleasant trip out here to the West Coast, Miss Hershel.”
“Fine, thank you, Mr. President.”
“Kevin. Please. Thorn is ‘Mr. President’ now.”
“Thank you, Kevin. And I’m Maureen.”
Martindale nodded. “I thank you for meeting with me.”
“Not at all.” She eased back in her chair, then surprised him again by casually throwing the elbow of her left arm onto the chair back and propping her head on her left thumb, with the cigar between the forefinger and middle finger of the same hand.
“I wanted to discuss a very important matter confronting the United States, Maureen.”
“The situation in Turkmenistan.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You know, of course, about the invasion by those Taliban fighters.”
“Yes.” She turned away from him to take another deep draw from the cigar, and she did not look back at him as she released the smoke from her lips. “The fighters seem to be growing in strength and taking new territory almost at will. I’d say the situation is extremely fluid.”
“ ‘Fluid’? Miss Hershel, the situation is critical out there!” Martindale retorted. “The Taliban insurgents now control three-quarters of the American-built oil and gas pipelines in Turkmenistan!”
“They control three-quarters of the pipelines in the eastern half of the country, approximately eight thousand linear miles, plus eight distribution facilities, sixteen pumping facilities, and two power-production facilities,” Hershel said, still looking away from Martindale, reeling off the information as if she were reading it in the clouds of cigar smoke swirling around her head. “They control all of product distribution to Uzbekistan and Pakistan and about half of the distribution to Iran, Afghanistan, and Kazakhstan.”
“It’s a serious development, Maureen.” Martindale slapped his Davidoff into an ashtray on the table next to him with an angry jab; he couldn’t taste it anyway over the overpowering scent of the Lars Teten. “Many folks around the world consider this conflict to be President Thorn’s first major foreign emergency test, one that directly affects American business interests. I’m impressed that you have such a command of the data, Maureen, but what I’d like to know is, what exactly does the president intend to do about it?”
