by Dale Brown
“I think we do not know of half the stuff that guy did during his career—it will all be classified for the next fifty years at least,” the man said.
“Well, what we do know is more than enough to get his name on the airport in the city he was born in,” the woman said. “He deserves his own memorial in Arlington National Cemetery.” More nods of agreement from those around the couple.
The tributes to Patrick McLanahan in the terminal building continued after they left the plane. The center of the main terminal had a ten-foot-tall bronze statue of Patrick on a six-foot tall pedestal, carrying a high-tech flight helmet under one arm and a handheld computer in the other hand—the toe of the statue’s right boot was shiny from passersbys rubbing it for good luck. The walls were lined with photographs of Patrick depicting events throughout his entire military and industrial career. On display panels, children had drawn and painted pictures of EB-52 Megafortress and EB-1C Vampire bombers, with words like BOMBS AWAY, GENERAL! and THANK YOU FOR KEEPING US SAFE, PATRICK!
While waiting at the baggage carousel for their luggage, the man nodded toward an electronic billboard. “There is the ad for that tour of the McLanahan family bar and home, and his columbarium,” he remarked. “I would like to see that before we leave.”
“We do not have time,” the woman pointed out. “The only flight from New York to Sacramento was late, and we have to be in San Francisco by ten A.M. The gravesite does not open until nine, and the bar does not open until eleven.”
“Rats,” the man said. “Maybe we go early and see if someone can open it for us.” The woman shrugged noncommitally and nodded.
They retrieved their luggage a short time later and headed for the rental-car counters beside the baggage carousels. On the way, the man stopped at a gift shop and emerged a few minutes later with a large shopping bag. “What did you get?” the woman asked him.
“Airplane models,” the man replied. “One of the EB-52 Megafortress, the one that General McLanahan used when he first attacked Russia, and another of the EB-1C Vampire, one of the bombers he used against the Russian president’s bunker after the American Holocaust.” The massive subatomic cruise-missile attack against American air defense, intercontinental-ballistic-missile, and long-range-bomber bases was known worldwide as the American Holocaust, during which over fifteen thousand Americans were killed. Patrick McLanahan had led a counterattack against Russian mobile intercontinental-ballistic-missile sites and eventually against Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov’s underground command bunker, killing Gryzlov and putting an end to the conflict.
“I thought you already had models of all of McLanahan’s experimental aircraft,” the woman pointed out.
“I do,” the man said, grinning like a young boy on Christmas morning, “but not this big! The largest of my models are one-forty-eighth scale, but these bad boys are one-twenty-fourth scale! Twice as big as my other ones!”
The woman shook her head in mock disbelief. “Well, you have to carry them,” was all she said, and they proceeded to get in line for a rental car for the drive to their hotel in downtown Sacramento.
The next morning, both were up early. They dressed, had breakfast in the hotel dining room, went back to their room to pack, and were checked out and leaving the hotel in their rental car by seven thirty. The downtown streets of the capital city of the state of California on this weekend morning were quiet, with just a few joggers and merchants about.
The couple’s first stop was at McLanahan’s, a small bar and restaurant that had been popular with law enforcement officers since it opened just after the turn of the twentieth century. A relative had bought the property from Patrick McLanahan’s sisters, the only surviving members of the family other than Patrick’s son, Bradley, and turned the upstairs apartment into a small Patrick McLanahan museum. Downstairs it was still a bar and restaurant, but the owner had hundreds of framed photographs and newspaper clippings depicting events in Patrick McLanahan’s life as well as the lives of those who served in the U.S. Air Force during the Cold War. “Closed,” the woman observed. “Not open until eleven A.M. We have to be in San Francisco by ten.”
“I know, I know,” her companion said. “Let’s try the columbarium.”
The entrance to the newly redesigned section of Sacramento Old City Cemetery had a security access aisle with a CLOSED sign over it, but the couple found the gate open and an elderly man wiping down the table beside an X-ray machine. The man smiled and nodded as the couple approached. “Mornin’, folks,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Sorry, but we’re not open for about another hour.”
The European man did not try to hide his disappointment one bit. “We must be in San Francisco on important business by ten, and we will not have an opportunity to come back. I wanted so much to see the general’s crypt.”
The caretaker nodded, a little pang of regret in his eyes, then asked, “Where are you from, sir?”
“I am from Vilnius, Lithuania, sir,” the man said. “My father was a colonel in the Lithuanian Air Force under General Palcikas when my country announced its independence from the Soviet Union, and he witnessed the events firsthand when the Russians invaded in retaliation. He told many stories of the incredible battles fought by Patrick McLanahan, Bradley Elliott, and the brave fighters of the secret task force code-named ‘Madcap Magician’ on behalf of my country. He talked about Patrick so often I thought we were related.” The caretaker smiled at that. “And now here I am, standing outside his gravesite, anxious to say good-bye to our family’s true hero, and I cannot.” His face turned crestfallen. “Well, good day to you, sir,” and he turned to depart.
“Wait,” the caretaker said. The Lithuanian man turned, his face brightening. “I’m a docent here at the memorial.” He thought for a brief moment, then said, “I can take you in to see the crypt. Just a quick look so we don’t get a flood of people wanting to go inside, no pictures out of respect—”
“That would be wonderful, sir!” the Lithuanian man exclaimed. “Honey, did you hear that?” The woman seemed elated for her companion. “Just a quick look, no touching, no pictures. You have made my day, sir!” The caretaker let the couple in and closed the gate behind them.
“I need to look inside your bag,” the caretaker said. The Lithuanian man had brought the large bag of model planes with him. “Our X-ray machine is off, and it’ll take a long time to get it warmed up—”
“Of course, of course,” the man said. He lifted up one of the large boxes. “An EB-52 Megafortress model. I already have one—”
“Several, you mean,” the woman interjected with a smile.
“Yes, several, but not one this large!” He lowered the box into the bag and lifted the second box. “An EB-1 Vampire. I cannot wait to put them together.”
The caretaker smiled and nodded. “This way, folks,” he said. He launched right into his memorized guided tour: “Old City Cemetery was established in 1849, at the beginning of the California Gold Rush, and is the final resting place of over twenty-five thousand souls,” he began. “The McLanahans were part of a large influx of fortune hunters and adventurers from Ireland. But they saw that their adopted little town was growing quickly and getting wild, so they gave up panning for gold and silver and took up law enforcement to help maintain law and order. Over five hundred McLanahans were Sacramento city police officers, including nine chiefs of police.
“This section of the cemetery, over an acre, holds the remains of seven generations of McLanahans, including four city mayors, two Roman Catholic bishops, one state governor, three United States congressmen, several general officers, and hundreds of men and women who served our nation all the way back to the Civil War. Patrick’s father and mother were the last to be interred here because space finally ran out, and then the family and the General Patrick McLanahan Memorial Foundation built the columbarium for the general and his remaining family members.”
They came to an area with two rows of marble walls. The wall on the left had eight
een-inch-square crypts, some already faced with markers; the wall on the right had a large mural etched into marble with an American flag, several large American jet-bomber aircraft flying toward the viewer from a central bald eagle, and the words of the John Gillespie Magee Jr.’s sonnet “High Flight” inscribed below the planes. “You will notice that each wall is eighteen feet high, eighteen inches thick, and the walls are eighteen feet apart,” the docent said, “eighteen being the number of years the general was in the Air Force.”
The caretaker gestured to the wall to the left, which was flanked with an American flag and another blue flag beside it with three silver stars. “Here is General McLanahan’s final resting place,” he said. The visitors looked wide-eyed and awestruck. At the top center of the marble wall was a simple blue metal plaque framed in silver with three silver stars on it. “His wife Wendy’s crypt is beside his to the right, but her urn is empty because her ashes were scattered at sea. By executive order of President Kenneth Phoenix, for the first year after the general’s inurnment here the columbarium had a military guard twenty-four hours a day—the president wanted a special place set aside for the general in Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, but the family did not want that. When the segregation of the McLanahan columbarium from the rest of the cemetery was completed, the guard was removed. On special occasions such as Patrick’s birthday, anniversaries of some of his battles, or on occasions such as Veterans Day, we have volunteer sentries stationed here on duty to honor the general and America.
“To the left of the general’s is the crypt of Patrick’s brother, Paul, who was a Sacramento Police Department officer, injured in the line of duty, and then rebuilt by Sky Masters Inc. with high-tech limbs and sensors, then becoming a member of the secret antiterrorist task force called the ‘Night Stalkers,’ ” the caretaker went on. “He was killed in a secret government contract operation in Libya; many of the facts of that operation are still classified. The other crypts on the top row are reserved for the general’s two sisters and for several of the general’s close friends and aides-de-camp, including Major General David Luger, who recently retired from active duty, and Brigadier General Hal Briggs, killed in action, where the plaque with the single silver star there is located. The spot directly beneath Patrick’s and Wendy’s is reserved for Patrick’s son, Bradley, who currently is a student of aerospace engineering at California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo.”
The docent turned and gestured to the opposite marble wall. “The general has a very large extended family, so this wall was built to house the remains of any other family members, friends of the general, or fellow general officers who wish to be inurned here,” he went on. “It contains crypts as well, but until the first wall is filled, this beautiful carved limestone diorama covers the face. The diorama will be removed and relocated when . . .” It wasn’t until then that the caretaker noticed that the Lithuanian man had set his bag down on the bench seat in between the marble walls and had slid the aircraft model boxes out. “What are you doing there, sir? Remember, no pictures.”
“We are not here to take pictures, my friend,” the woman said behind the caretaker. A fraction of a second later a cloth was pressed against the caretaker’s mouth and nose. He struggled to get free, but the woman was surprisingly strong. The caretaker gasped as he inhaled a lungful of a very harsh chemical that smelled like mothballs. Within seconds he felt as if the columbarium were spinning, and his vision blurred, switching from color to black and white, and then began exploding in bursts of color. In thirty seconds the man’s legs could not support his body, and he slumped to the ground.
He was awake long enough to see the Lithuanian man removing what looked like metal tools from the airplane-model boxes!
“Eta shtuka prekrasno rabotayet,” the man said in Russian. “That stuff works great.”
“Ya poluchayu nemnogo golovokruzheniye sebya,” the woman said, also in Russian. She used a moist towelette to wipe the residue of the nerve agent from her fingers. “I am starting to get a little dizzy myself from the dimethyltryptamine.”
In seconds the man had assembled two crowbars and a tool resembling a lug wrench from parts in the boxes. While he assembled the tools, the woman went out of the columbarium and returned a moment later rolling back a large ornate concrete planter. The man climbed onto the planter, the woman handed him a crowbar, and he began prying off the engraved marble stone covering the crypt of Lieutenant General Patrick Shane McLanahan.
“Kamery videonablyudeniya vezde,” the woman said. “Security cameras are everywhere.”
“It does not matter,” the man said. After breaking off several pieces of the thin stone, he finally managed to pop the engraved stone off the crypt, revealing a steel panel with two very large bolts that attached it to the marble. Using the lug wrench, he started loosening the bolts. “Notify the sleeper teams that we will be on the move shortly.” The woman made a call using a disposable cell phone.
It did not take long to open the crypt. Inside they found a simple cylindrical aluminum urn, along with several letters sealed in see-through airtight containers, and several military decorations. The man picked one up. “Proklyatiye!” he swore. “I did not know the ublyudok received an Air Force Cross with a silver star!” The star signified receiving the Air Force Cross, the Air Force’s highest award except for the Medal of Honor, five times. “One of them had to be for killing President Gryzlov. I guess they do not give Medals of Honor out to criminals.”
“Let’s get out of here,” the woman said. “The network has been alerted.”
It was over moments later. The contents of the crypt were loaded into the shopping bag, and the two Russians departed the cemetery, walking briskly back to their rental car but not running so as to not attract attention. They drove just a few blocks away, in an area already scouted out as having no security or traffic cameras nearby, and transferred to a different vehicle driven by a young man. Careful not to hurry or run any traffic lights or stop signs, they drove out of the city across the Tower Bridge into West Sacramento. They changed cars three more times in various areas around the city before stopping at a deserted fruit-stand gravel parking lot west of Davis, California, a place unlikely to have security cameras. The man approached a large dark sedan that had diplomatic license plates. A window rolled down; the man put the bags in through the window and returned to his car. The black sedan drove down an access road until reaching an onramp that took them onto Interstate 80 heading west toward San Francisco.
“Ty polnyy durak, Colonel,” an older man in the front seat said. He had long white hair carefully styled in waves, a thick neck, wore a dark expensive-looking suit and designer sunglasses, and he spoke without turning around to address the persons in the backseat. “You are a complete fool, Ilianov,” the man, named Boris Chirkov, said. Chirkov was the envoy in charge of the Russian consulate in San Francisco, coordinating all trade matters between the Russian Foreign Ministry, the American State Department, and businesses in the western United States. “You risk too much.”
“I am under orders from President Gryzlov himself, Excellency,” the man in the backseat, Bruno Ilianov, said. Ilianov was a Russian Air Force colonel and, officially, deputy air attaché assigned to the Russian embassy in Washington. Beside him sat a woman with jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and an athletic body, her sunglasses hiding dark eyes. “But I am happy to follow those orders. These Americans, especially the ones from his home city, treat McLanahan like a god. It is an insult to all Russians. The man who deliberately murdered President Gryzlov’s father and bombed our capital city does not deserve to be lauded.”
“You are—or shall I say, were, before you touched those bags—an official military representative of the Russian Federation, Ilianov,” Chirkov said. “And you”—he turned to address the woman—”are a high-ranking security officer with diplomatic privileges, Korchkov. You both will lose your diplomatic credentials and be forced to exit this country forever, as well a
s being banned from entering all North Atlantic Treaty Organization and NATO-aligned countries. Less than six months in the United States, on your first major Kremlin posting overseas, and now you are nothing more than a common thief and vandal. Does your career mean so little to you?”
“The president has assured me that my future will be secure, sir,” Ilianov said. “Even if I am arrested, all the Americans can do is deport me, which I will gladly see happen just to get away from this corrupt and decrepit country.”
Ilianov was an idiot, Chirkov thought—Gennadiy Gryzlov discarded human beings like used tissues, and had done so for decades. But the world geopolitical situation was far more serious than Ilianov’s brainless actions. This could completely destroy American-Russian relations, Chirkov thought—although, truth be told, those relations were already pretty bad right now. He knew Gennadiy Gryzlov’s father, Anatoliy Gryzlov, had issued orders that killed tens of thousands of Americans and even hundreds of fellow Russians on Russian soil, and he had no doubt that his son was capable of similar unspeakable acts. Although Chirkov was the fourth-highest-ranking member of the Russian diplomatic delegation to the United States of America, Gryzlov’s family was far wealthier and vastly more politically powerful than his own. Whatever Gryzlov had in mind beyond grave robbing, Chirkov probably couldn’t stop him. But he had to try to dissuade him somehow.
Chirkov half turned in his seat. “What else is President Gryzlov planning, Ilianov?” he asked. “Defiling and looting a crypt is bad enough.”
“When that crypt held the remains of Mother Russia’s most murderous aggressor since Adolf Hitler, I am happy to participate,” Ilianov said. “McLanahan is a criminal that murdered the president of my country. He does not deserve to be honored.”
“That attack was a long time ago, and it was during a time of war.”
“A war of McLanahan’s making, sir, completely unauthorized and illegal,” Ilianov said. Chirkov sat motionless, suppressing a shake of his head. Former Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov had retaliated against an attack led by Patrick McLanahan by unleashing waves of nuclear-tipped supersonic cruise missiles and nearly wiped out America’s entire land-based nuclear deterrent—along with several thousand Americans—in what became known as the “American Holocaust.” McLanahan’s subsequent nonnuclear attack on Russia with America’s last remaining long-range bombers was the response, which left both nations with near parity in the numbers of nuclear warheads. The final attack, led by Patrick McLanahan himself, was against Gryzlov’s alternate underground command post at Ryazan, a pinpoint strike that had killed the Russian president.
