“How do you know for sure?”
Patrick went over to the large-screen monitor and hit the digital replay button—most televisions now had the capability ofdigitally recording the last two hours of a broadcast—until he came to the shot he'd seen when he’d first come in, “I saw the shot of the tail section. Our planes don’t have a very tall vertical stabilizer, and Vampire One didn’t have a horizontal stabilizer—it used adaptive wing technology for pitch control.”
“What’s that?” General Falke asked.
“We found that we don’t need to use conventional flight control surfaces on planes anymore, sir—all we need to do is change the nature of the air flowing over any surface of an aircraft,” Patrick explained. “We use liny hydraulic devices to bend the aircraft skin, all controlled by air data computers. A change too small to be seen by the naked eye can make any surface create lift or drag. We’re experimenting with the possibility of building a B-l bomber with twice the speed and efficiency with wings half the normal size—we can turn the entire fuselage into a wing. We can make a brick fly like a paper airplane with this technology.” The three generals looked apprehensively at McLanahan.
“The Russians could’ve sawed off sections of the tail to make it look like one of yours,” General Muskoka mumbled.
“How would they know what it looked like, sir—and why would they bother?” Patrick asked. He scrolled through the images. “Here’s definite proof, sir: a LADAR array. The Vampire used six of these laser radars for targeting, terrain following, aircraft warning, missile tracking, intercepts, station keeping, surveillance, everything. It could see fifty miles in any direction, even into space. The design of that array was one of our most closely guarded secrets.”
“And now the Russians have it—and they’re trotting out their prize for everyone to see,” Muskoka said acidly. “If your Captain Dewey had followed orders, McLanahan, this never would’ve happened.”
“If given the opportunity to do so, sir, I’d authorize her to do it again,” Patrick said.
“That attitude, mister, is why you’re here today!” Muskoka snapped. “That’s how come you almost got shot down, why your friend Terrill Samson entered charges against you, and that’s why your career is going to come to an abrupt, unfortunate end. You don’t seem to grasp what’s going on here.”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“I advise you to keep your mouth shut, General,” Muskoka said.
“Same here,” General Hayes said. “But speak your mind if you want.”
“Major Deverill and Captain Dewey did an outstanding job rescuing Madcap Magician and Siren,” Patrick said. “Siren had valuable information on Russian activities that are right now threatening to disrupt all of Europe. We got definite proof that the experimental Russian fighter-bomber from the Metyor Aerospace plant at Zhukovsky bombed that Albanian village—”
“The ends do not justify the means. Patrick;” Hayes said. “I would’ve thought after seventeen years in the Air Force and twelve years watching Brad Elliott get slapped down by Washington, you’d understand that. Unfortunately, you’re going to find out the hard way.”
“My God, look at that,” Falke breathed. Patrick looked. CNN was now showing actual civilian satellite photos of Elliott Air Force Base. The resolution showed a lot of detail—he could easily count the aboveground hangars and buildings, and he could see the mobile control tower that was out only for a launch, which meant the photo had been taken just before or just after a rare daytime flight test. The captions identified the image as the top-secret Air Force research base north of Las Vegas that was the home base of the B-1 bomber that the Russians had shot down. Other amateur photos taken by “UFO- hunters” that sneaked out to Dreamland—some several years old—showed ground-level details of some of the larger buildings; superimposed graphics showed where the runway in Groom Lake was located. They were pretty darn accurate, Patrick thought, except the real runway was much longer and wider,
“How in hell did they know the plane came from Dreamland?” Falke asked.
“Because the President told them, sir,” Patrick replied.
“What?"
“He’s right,” General Hayes said. “The President told Russian president Sen’kov everything when he called them asking that our guys not get shot down.” He looked at his staff officers, then at Patrick, and added, “But it was supposed to be kept secret. That was the deal—we don’t tell what we knew about the Metyor-179, and they don’t tell about our Vampires overflying Russia.”
“That’s what the CIC gets for making a deal like that with the Russians,” Muskoka said bitterly. “So what do we recommend to the JCS and SecDef?”
“First, we’ll need a list of all the classified subsystems on that plane,” Hayes said. “What else will the Russians find out about along with LADAR?”
“I can brief you on all the subsystems of the Vampire—I’ve worked on it for several years,” Patrick said. Hayes just glared at him. He knew he was the best choice to get the information for them quickly, but he also did not want to have to rely on a man they were possibly about to court-martial.
“What about destroying the wreckage?” Falke suggested. “Have a special ops team go in and destroy the classified gear?”
“It may not be necessary, sir,” Patrick said. “The best the Russians or anyone else will be able to do is reverse-engineer the basic design. If the Russians tried to put a current through any component after a crash, the firmware is designed to dump fake computer code and viruses into the detection-and-analysis machines they use. If the computers they use are networked— and the systems are designed to wait until they encounter a networked computer—the viruses will spread through the entire network in milliseconds. We may want to consider sending in a team to make the Russians think we want to destroy the equipment—have the team get intercepted just before they go in and pull them out, make the Russians think they stopped us. But it may not be worth risking a team penetrating a Russian intelligence laboratory for real.”
Hayes looked at McLanahan closely, studying him. He appeared as if he was impressed and disappointed all at the same time. “Good point—and good planning on your part, General,” he said.
“The question remains, sir—what about the Russian stealth bomber?” McLanahan asked.
“What about it?” Muskoka asked.
“It’s still out there, and it’s a major threat,” McLanahan maintained. “We’ve proven that it committed that attack on that factory in Albania, we’ve put it in the exact vicinity of the NATO AWACS plane that was shot down over Macedonia, and we have credible evidence that it was involved in the raid on Albanian and Macedonian border forces that started the war. If the President made a deal not to reveal the existence of the stealth bomber, the Russians broke that agreement. We should not only spill the beans about the Russian stealth bomber, but we should be going after it.”
“ ‘Go after it,’ ” Muskoka breathed. 'That seems to be your answer for everything, McLanahan—just ‘go after it.’ Bomb the crap out of everything in sight.”
“How do you propose we ‘go after it’?” Hayes asked.
“We have to find a way to draw it into a fight,”
“How do we do that? Bomb a Russian air base hoping to hit it? Bomb Moscow until Sen'kov coughs it up to us?”
“President Sen'kov may not know anything about the plane,” Patrick said. “We know the plane was activated shortly after the death of Colonel Kazakov in Kosovo. We know that Kazakov’s son Pavel owns the factory that makes the plane. The stealth fighter was in storage until Kazakov came to see Fursenko at Zhukovsky. After that, the plane was launched and hasn't been seen since—and at the same time, all these attacks in the Balkans have taken place.”
“I’m not following you, McLanahan,” Hayes said. “What makes you think the Russian government doesn't know about the stealth fighter?”
“They could know about it, but not be in control of it,” Patrick said. “The stealth figh
ter at Metyor was never delivered to the Russian or Soviet air force. The only pilots ever to fly it worked for Metyor, not the air force.”
“Or this could be some elaborate fantasy of yours,” Muskoka said. “I don't believe anyone—not the Russians, not Kazakov, no one—would be crazy enough to fly a stealth bomber all over eastern Europe and attack military and civilian targets without proper authorization from the highest levels in government. The political and military consequences would be enormous. He'd be playing with fire.”
Patrick looked directly at General Muskoka and said with a slight—Hayes would have said “evil”—grin: “I did it, sir.” Muskoka looked angry enough to bite through the conference table. “And look what’s happening to you, McLanahan— you're about to be shit-canned.”
“Sir, do you think a gangster like Pavel Kazakov is worried about being ‘shit-canned’?”
“I think you'd better worry about yourself McLanahan,” Muskoka said.
‘That’s enough,” General Hayes said, after seeing that neither Muskoka nor McLanahan were going to back down from this argument. He stood and stepped away from the conference table toward the door to his office, motioning for Patrick to follow him. He then stepped toward him and in a low voice said, “You and your teams have done some good work. McLanahan, good stuff.”
“Sir, someone has got to do something about that stealth fighter,” Patrick maintained. ”I know it’s the key to everything that’s happening in the Balkans right now.”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes, Patrick,” Hayes said. “We’re dealing with you now.” Patrick looked deflated, disappointed that his efforts were all in vain. “I’m told you didn’t agree to put in your papers and punch out. Why?”
“Because I’ve still got a lot of work to do, sir,” Patrick said. “I’ve got a unit to train and a center to run, and there’s a Russian warplane out there trying to set Europe on fire while we twiddle our thumbs and toes and pretend it doesn’t matter to us anymore. I’m ready to get back to work.”
“That’s not going to happen, McLanahan,” Hayes said seriously. “SecDef and the JCS left the question about what to do with you up to the Air Force, and SecAF left it up to me. I’ve thought about it long and hard. You've done a lot of extraordinary things for the United States and the Air Force, McLanahan. You deserve a whole lot better.
“But Terrill Samson is one of our finest officers as well. If I thought there was one milligram of malice in these charges, I’d dismiss them in the blink of an eye. I’ve spoken with Terrill a half-dozen times in the past two days, and so has most of my staff, and we all agree: the charges are real, and so are the crimes. I’m sorry, McLanahan.
“I’m going to repeat what you’ve heard today a dozen times at least: request early retirement and you’ll get it, with full rank and time in service, an honorable discharge, and all traces of these charges completely expunged. Fight it, talk to the press, or file a countersuit, and you’ll end up in Leavenworth for seven years, a Big Chicken Dinner, reduction in grade, and fines.” The “Big Chicken Dinner,” as Patrick knew too well now, meant a Bad Conduct Discharge—the kiss of death for any ex-military officer seeking a civilian job much above short-order cook. Jester could see the hesitation in McLana- han’s face. “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you, McLanahan?”
“No, I don’t, sir,” Patrick replied.
“Then I’m sure you’ve been in Dreamland too long,” the chief of staff said. “Because if any other crewdog did this to his wing commander, he’d be court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and you know it. If one of your officers did it to you, you’d see to it that they were grounded permanently. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said. Hayes’s eyes were wide with surprise, then narrowed in anger and suspicion. “Sir, in my world, we reward airmen that show creativity, initiative, and courage. In the flight test world, we build a game plan, and we go out and fly the plan—but we leave it up to the crew to decide whether or not it’s time to push the envelope a little. All of our crews are tough, smart, and highly skilled operators. If we tell them to try a launch at Mach one point two and they get there and they think the plane and the weapon can handle one point five, they’ll fake it to one point five. We don’t punish them for breaking with the program.”
“But you weren’t flying a test mission, McLanahan.. ..”
“Sir, every mission for us is the same—our job is to get the mission done, no matter what it takes. We at Dreamland are not just program managers or engineers. Our job is to test the new generation of aircraft and weapons in every conceivable way. If we do our job, some crewdog in a line unit may not get his ass shot down because he thought he had to slow down or climb to employ his weapons or get out of a hostile situation.”
“I say again, McLanahan—you weren’t in a flight test situation,” Hayes emphasized. “You were on a support mission that depended on stealth and strict adherence to the rules at all times.”
“Sir, if you wanted strict rule-following, you shouldn’t have asked us to do the job,” Patrick said.
“That’s bullshit, McLanahan,” Hayes retorted. “I expect discipline and professionalism in all of my combat-coded units, or they are history! You play by the rules, or you're out.”
“HAWC doesn't play by the rules, sir,” Patrick argued. “We never have. The brass hated General Elliott—they cringed whenever his name was brought up. But I also realized that his name kept on coming up for one good reason—he was effective. He did the job he was asked to do, no matter how impossible it was. He wasn't perfect, he wasn't a team player—but he was the best. Men like Terrill Samson play by the rules.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Patrick,” Hayes said, the disappointment and frustration evident in his face and voice. “I like you. You speak your mind, you stick to your beliefs, and you get the job done. You have a lot of potential. But your loyalty to Brad Elliott and his twisted brand of warfighting is turning you into a loose cannon. Terrill Samson was right: you are dangerous, and you don't fit in’
“I’ve taken the matter out of your hands and out of the UCMJ, Patrick.” The UCMJ, or Uniform Code of Military Justice, was the separate set of federal laws governing conduct and responsibilities of military men and women. “I've recommended that you be involuntarily retired if you didn’t agree to request early retirement, the Secretary of Defense agreed, and it was done. SecDef doesn't want a court-martial, and personally I don't want to see you hauled up in front of one. You were retired as of oh eight hundred hours this morning. Your service is at an end.” He extended his hand. “Sorry to see you go, General.”
Patrick was about to shake his hand when a very distinctive phone rang in the outer office. “Batphone,” someone called out, but it was picked up before the second ring. At the same instant, Hayes’s pager went off—he acknowledged it, but didn’t need to read the message. Moments later, an aide came to the door: “Meeting in the Gold Room in fifteen minutes, sir.” The Gold Room was the Joint Chiefs of Staff conference room. This was an unscheduled meeting—Patrick knew something was happening.
Hayes knew it, too. “Thank you.” He turned to General Falke: “Wombat, I need an intel dump right now.”
Falke had already been on the phone as soon as he heard the “Batphone,” the direct line between the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s office and the chief of staff of the Air Force.
“It’s on its way, sir,” he said. “I’ll have an aide drop it off for you ASAP.” A few moments later, an aide stepped into Hayes’s office with a folder marked “Top Secret”—the “intel dump,” the latest intelligence summaries for the entire world updated minute-by-minute, and the “force dump,” the latest force status reports from the eight Air Force major commands. A moment later, another aide came rushing in with the latest force status reports for the Single Integrated Operations Plan (SIOP) and non-SIOP nuclear forces. Although, technically, the American nuclear forces were under the combat command
of the U.S. Strategic Command, a unified military command, in day-today operations the nuclear-capable bombers, land-launched in tercontmental ballistic missiles, and their warheads were under Air Force control until gained by Strategic Command.
Hayes was putting on his Class A blouse and getting ready to hurry off to the “Tank,” what most everyone in the Pentagon called the Gold Room. He nodded to Patrick as he hurried to the door. “I'll be seeing you, McLanahan. Good luck.” An aide rushed into the Chief’s office to hand him another folder, and then he hurried off, followed by his deputy and his chief of operations.
“I have a message for you, sir,” the aide said to Patrick. “Your civilian attorney is waiting for you at the Mall Entrance right now.”
“My civilian attorney?” Patrick asked. “I don’t have a civilian attorney.” The aide shrugged his shoulders and departed, leav ing him alone in the big office.
It was a long, lonely walk to the Mall Entrance, and an even longer walk outdoors into the hazy sunshine. Patrick felt as if he should take off his hat, remove his jacket with his stars and ribbons on it. He felt strange, having junior officers salute him, like he was some sort of spy in a military costume trying to infiltrate the place. He had been kicked out of the Air Force almost the entire time he'd been in that building, and he hadn’t even known it. The Pentagon now seemed alien to him. A few hours earlier, he'd walked into this place apprehensively, but feeling very much a part of what this place was all about. Now all that had been taken away from him.
Patrick didn't see anyone at the entrance who looked like he was looking for him. But he didn't need to talk with an attorney anyway: there was going to be no court-martial, no appearance in court, no opportunity to fight the charges brought against him He was out, just like that.
There was a big stretch limousine parked right in front of the Mall Entrance in a “No Parking" zone, with a Secret Service-looking agent, a female, in a long dark coat and sunglasses standing beside it, and he thought that had to be for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of Defense so they could be whisked off to the White House.
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