Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “Yes, sir,” Briggs said. The tall, thin, black officer, who had been assigned to Dreamland longer than anyone else in the room, looked as excited as a kid who’d just been told he’d be going to Disneyland for his birthday. “Since Patrick has been involved in operations of this sort before. I briefed him on the warning order. He gave me some suggestions, and then recommended I call you and the One-Eleventh in on it. Since I’m the man in charge of the team, 1 authorized it.”

  “Proceed, then.”

  Briggs motioned to Patrick, who punched instructions into his computer terminal, and a map of western Russia appeared on the large electronic computer monitor at the foot of the conference table. “My team has been tasked to support a hostile rescue mission inside Russia. Apparently the CIA has a deep cover agent on the run outside Zhukovsky Air Base east of Moscow. The normal procedure was to activate an underground railroad-type network inside Russia to get her out, but the network was shut down.”

  “Obviously, CIA neglected to tell the agent about this tiny detail,” Terrill Samson surmised.

  “You got it, sir,” Briggs said.

  “What team are you talking about. Colonel?” Furness asked, glancing warily at both McLanahan and Briggs. She was a full member of HAWC as well as the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron and had complete access to the facility, but she also reminded herself that what she knew was probably only the tip of the iceberg—this place was so compartmentalized and so deep undercover that she’d probably be stupefied by everything that went on here.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t go into details, ma’am,” Briggs replied. “I’ll reveal as much as I can to give as much planning data to your guys, but you’ll have to follow my lead on a lot of it. Anyway, CLA wants this agent out immediately. I fly out immediately. I’m going to pick up some gear at a friend of ours place in Arkansas, and then deploy with my team to Turkey to stage out of there.”

  “Well, good luck,” Samson said. “But I'm still confused. What’s our involvement?”

  “Hal was tasked to perform a hostile exfiltration deep in Russian airspace,” Patrick explained. “I recommended that we provide air cover for his team,”

  "Air cover?" Samson asked. “What do you mean, ‘air cover'?”

  “Here’s the target area,” Patrick replied, motioning to the computerized map. “In about forty-two hours, Hal's team will land somewhere near Zhukovsky, here, to attempt to extract the CIA operative. Hal expects heavy resistance—apparently they've been looking for the agent for about twelve hours already, and the search is intensifying. I suggested stealth airborne cover for the infiltration and exfiltration.”

  “You mean, send Vampires into Russia to cover a CIA rescue operation?” Samson asked incredulously. “C’mon, Patrick, you’ve got to be joking! We aren’t in a position to provide any sort of air cover!”

  “I disagree, sir,” Patrick said. He punched up the operational status readout for the 111th Bomb Squadron and displayed it on the screen. “Out of six operational EB- 1C Vampire bombers,” he summarized, as the readout popped up on the large electronic briefing board, “two arc available right now, one is airborne and can be ready to go a few hours after the first two are loaded, one is in post-maintenance and can be ready if necessary in about eight hours, and one is undergoing major modifications and is unavailable ”

  Samson checked the data block for this set of information— and saw that Patrick had had this data pulled a few hours earlier. So this wasn’t exactly the no-notice action meeting it looked like: McLanahan. most likely Luger, and maybe even Briggs had already gotten word about this operation and hadn't told him about it.

  “But the One-Eleventh isn’t operational yet,” Samson argued, deciding to hold off confronting McLanahan with his thoughts for now. “We're still deep into the demonstration-evaluation stage. They won’t be operational for at least another year.”

  Patrick called up the roster of all the flight crews qualified to fly the Vampire strategic flying battleship. “We’ve got the crews available, sir.” Patrick went on hurriedly. “I’ll take the lead plane, Major Cheshire can fly as my aircraft commander.” Major Nancy Cheshire was HAWC’s chief flight test pilot. If Terrill Samson knew her better, he would be far more afraid of her transforming into an ideological clone of Brad Elliott than Patrick McLanahan or anyone else at HAWC. “Colonel Furness and Colonel Luger can fly as the backup crew, followed by Dewey and Deverill. They’re the most advanced of the One-Eleventh’s initial cadre. Then—”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Rebecca interjected, her eyes narrow ing in exasperation, “but you aren't in our squadron.”

  “This will be an important mission for all of us. Major Cheshire and I have the most experience—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Rebecca said, more insistently this time, “but with all due respect—you got us into this, and you have to let us finish it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Rebecca?”

  “Sir, you created this unit specifically for missions like this,” Rebecca said, “You gave us the tools, you trained us, and you prepared us. Now you’ve got to let us do our job.” “This unit has been together for less than a year,” McLanahan said. “It’s not an operational unit, not by a long shot. Those planes still belong to us. If there’s a mission to do—”

  “Everyone, stop!” Samson cut in hotly, “Listen to me, Patrick. We will never be approved for a mission like this. We barely got approval to form the One-Eleventh, and that was just a few months ago. We may have two birds ready to fly, but that’s ready to fly test and evaluation missions on the ranges, not fly into combat—and sure as hell not over Russia!”

  “Actually, sir—I went ahead and got approval,” Patrick said.

  “Say again?” Samson boomed, his eyes blazing in fury. “That was my call, sir,” Briggs said. “Patrick ran the idea down to me, I called the DCI, Director Morgan; he happened to be meeting with Secretary of Defense Goff in the White House, he pitched the idea to him. spoke with Patrick for a while—”

  “You spoke with the Secretary of Defense?” Samson asked. Left unsaid was “Without notifying me first?”

  But Patrick knew what Samson was angry about. “I called you as soon as I was put through to the Secretary, sir,” Patrick said. “He gave a provisional ‘go-ahead' a few moments later, pending clearance from the President. He should be talking to the President right about now. It happened pretty fast.” Patrick handed him a printout with a signed authorization from the SecDef. Samson stared in disbelief at his deputy commander, his lips taut, but said nothing else. “I’ve already built the generation schedule, put the crews on crew rest—except myself, of course—-and I'll have my first status briefing in—”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Long interjected again, “but that's my job. I'd appreciate it if you'd step aside and let me do it.”

  “Major, I appreciate your enthusiasm, and this is not a criticism of you or your unit’s skill or readiness,” Patrick said, typing more instructions into the computer as he spoke, “but I'm in charge of this mission, and I’ll take care of the planning this time around. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand by and help me get the maintenance and combat support staffs briefed and organized, and then we'll—”

  “Hold it right there, Patrick,” General Samson interjected. “I’ve heard enough. Patrick, this time you’re wrong, and the major is correct, on all counts. You’ve done a good job training the One-Eleventh. They’ve done well, better than anyone’s expected, given their recent history and reputation. Colonel Furness is also correct in pointing out that you are not a member of that squadron. And another thing: technically, the Vampires belong to the taxpayers, not to me, not to you. They are not your personal property.”

  “I'm well aware of that, sir,” McLanahan said. “I wasn’t implying—”

  “Frankly, General, I expected a little more support for one of the teams you yourself created,” Samson said. “I know you want to get in on the action, but try not to slam one of your own to
do it. I only need one word from you, Patrick: is the One- Eleventh ready to fight?”

  Patrick looked at Furness and Long, who glared back at him, and then at the other representatives of the 111th Bombardment Wing “Aces High.” Patrick found it was one of the hardest questions he’d ever had to answer: if he said “no,” he’d be a liar, and if he said “yes,” he’d be effectively cutting himself out of the unit and the mission he’d worked so hard to build. But there really wasn’t any conflict over the question at all—and he knew it:

  “The answer is, yes, sir, they are,” Patrick replied resolutely. ‘They’ve flown every training sortie and every research mission we’ve asked them to fly; they've prepared well. The initial cadre is some of the best flyers I’ve ever worked with—they’re aggressive, knowledgeable, and dedicated. They’re ready to go kick some butt.” He turned to Rebecca. “My apologies. I was out of line. Of course, it’s your squadron.” His eyes were no longer ordering or demanding, but not quite pleading, either—not yet. “But I do know more about the Vampires than anyone else on this base, and I’ve worked with ISA before many times. Put me on the inflight backup bird, along with Nancy Cheshire. She’s the most experienced aircraft commander.”

  “We can use your expertise in the virtual cockpit, sir,” Long said. It was too obvious that Long enjoyed watching McLanahan get a good hand-slapping by Samson and was only too anxious to give him one last jab in the ribs.

  “No, I think having him in the backup bird is a good idea,” Samson inteijected. “But I’m going to exercise a little commander’s prerogative and order Colonel Furness to fly as Patrick’s AC. Nancy Cheshire and Dave Luger will command the virtual cockpit for the mission.” To Long, he said, “Major, you’re taking over planning for this operation. I’d like a mass briefing in twenty-four hours. According to the warning order, your planes are supposed to be over the patrol area in about forty hours.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”

  “Colonel Briggs, I imagine you’ll be on your way too,” Samson said with a smile. “Stopping off for some wonder toys, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir,” Briggs said happily. “I can think of one or two things we might need for a mission like this.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Samson said. He extended his big hand, and Briggs shook it warmly. “Good luck, good hunting. Tell me all about it when you get back.”

  “You got it. General.”

  General Samson dismissed his staff and the One-Eleventh squadron officers, but not before giving Patrick a warning glare, For the first time since they had been working together, Patrick McLanahan had come very, very close to stepping over the line. He had a much better reputation than that. Hopefully, it did not portend a sign of bad things to come. He made a mental note to sit down with Patrick after this was over with and have a talk—not a “heart-to-heart,” but a real “get the shit out of your ears” talk.

  Most of the senior officers and NCOs headed right for the combat support staff mission planning room, which held a series of computers that would assist them in mission planning. As usual, Patrick headed for the seat behind the master terminal—but he realized he had virtually pushed John Long out of the way. Patrick waited a few heartbeats to see if Long would let “rank have its privileges,” but no chance of that. This was Long’s chance to show what he and the One-Eleventh Strategic Squadron could do, and he was anxious to go. “Sorry about that, John,” Patrick said. He yielded the seat to the One-Eleventh’s operations officer.

  “No problem, sir,” Long said, not bothering to disguise a smirk. Following McLanahan’s lead, the HAWC staff officers gave up their seats to the One-Eleventh’s staff members. Long handed him a printout. “Here are the things I’ll need you to work up for us, sir. We’ll have a ‘how d’ya do’ brief in two hours. Let me know if you need any help with that.”

  “I can work better at the master console. Major,” Patrick said. But Long had already turned back and logged into the master terminal, ready to start building his flight plan, scheduling refueling and forward basing support, and downloading intelligence data. His flight commanders and support staff logged on as well, and in moments they were all busy entering data and running mission planning checklists.

  If the little prick asks me to get coffee for him, Patrick thought as he left to head back to his office, I’m going to have to deck him.

  The White House President’s Study

  that same time

  The one good thing about this president. Secretary of Defense Robert Goff remarked to himself, is that he was totally accessible—because he never went anywhere. He was always working in the office, usually in the study adjacent to the Oval Office, except if conducting a small meeting with his staff or greeting visitors. Because he had a very small political marine behind him, he rarely did public appearances or Party fund-raisers. If he had any free moments, they were spent with his wife and children upstairs in the residence. Robert knew enough not to disturb the President when he was meditating, usually at ten a.m. and three p.m., but otherwise President Thom was working the phones or on his computer, being the chief executive.

  Goff sometimes worried about his old friend. He didn’t play golf, didn't jog, didn’t sail, rarely visited Camp David, didn’t do many of the things other chief executives were noted for doing to relax. His only relief from life in Washington was the occasional weekend visit to his parents’ home in Vermont or his wife’s mother’s home in New Hampshire to see the grandkids. Other presidents were criticized for being “trapped” in the White House by their duties and responsibilities, but Thom seemed to get his drive and energy from the deluge of meetings, reports, briefings, and decisions he had to deal with every day.

  Goff knew he was intruding on the President’s meditation time, but he entered the study anyway and quietly took a seat on his favorite chair in a comer of the room, watching his friend, the most powerful man on planet Earth, in silence. The President sat quietly, hands folded serenely in his lap, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and even. Goff had gone through the meditation lessons years ago, given by Thomas’s wife, and he had tried to do it twice a day, but that practice had stopped long ago. If he tried very hard, he could remember his mantra. He told Thomas he still kept up with his meditation, and Thomas just smiled and nodded.

  Well, Goff thought, maybe Thomas didn’t need to take up golf or jogging or sailing. The President was in extraordinary physical condition, even though as far as Goff knew, he didn’t exercise regularly. Seated there in a white shirt, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, he looked fit and trim. Bob had once asked Thom about his lack of exercise, i and he had responded by dropping down on the floor in his business suit and doing a handstand, holding his legs out com-1 pletely horizontal with the floor for fifteen full seconds—first ! with two hands, then one hand, then three fingers. It was a most impressive display of strength and balance. Thom claimed that it was part of the Vedic sciences, a harmony of spirit, mind, and body that allowed his body to do anything his mind commanded. He said the possibilities were endless—that was only a small sample of what he could do.

  Of course, as a former Special Forces commando, Thom had already done enough exercise to last twenty men a life- i time—to him, supporting his body with one finger might be child's play. Goff had a hard time believing any of that New Age yogi crap.

  “You ever regret we did this. Bob?” he heard Thom ask. He hadn't heard or even noticed the President conclude his meditation.

  “Every day,” Goff responded. The President smiled. “You?”

  “No,” the President replied gently, and Goff knew that was the truth. The relaxed smile dimmed, replaced by a grim, nononsense visage. “Something's happened? My first sensitive international intelligence crisis?”

  Goff had no idea how the President could have guessed this—he had just gotten wind of it himself. “Yes, sir,” Goff said. “Doug Morgan and the Vice President are on their way. It has to do with Project Siren
.” Goff knew he never had to back-brief the President on anything they had talked about within the past six to nine months—Thom had a remarkable ability to recall the details of any discussion or briefing, no matter how informal or routine. He had been briefed on roughly three dozen ongoing intelligence operations inside Russia alone, but he could recall major details about each and every one of them. “She was flushed out of hiding, and the network set up to retrieve her broke down. CIA wants to pull her out immediately. They believe she might have information relating to the recent attack in Albania.”

  “Deep inside Russia, near Moscow—Zhukovsky, I believe?”

  Goff nodded. “Has to be by air, then. They have someone in mind? Delta Force? Air Force Special Ops?”

  “Intelligence Support Agency.”

  “Which cell?” He then held up a hand. “Madcap Magician, launching out of Turkey.”

  “The very one, sir.”

  ‘They need air support?”

  Goff was flabbergasted—it was as if the President had already planned this operation in his head, considered all the possible hazards, and had come up with a full set of contingency plans. “They’re requesting specialized stealth air cover.”

  “That deep into the heart of Russia, they want counterair, SEAD. antitank, antipersonnel, the works—they want someone from HAWC, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sit down with Doug, Lester, and General Venti, give them the go-ahead,” the President said. “Advise me when the operation is under way.”

  “Don’t you want to discuss this with the rest of the Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs, with the congressional leadership?”

  “Bob, unless the Constitution’s been rescinded in the past twenty minutes, I am the commander-in-chief,” the President said. “You are my secretary of defense and national security advisor, and the Vice President is my chief of staff. I’m familiar with Project Siren, and I think I have an idea about the difficulties of doing a covert extraction so far inside enemy territory. I am therefore authorizing you to plan the mission with the help of your intelligence and military advisors and get it under way immediately.”