Warrior Class

by Dale Brown

  "Would you?"

  "It doesn't matter now, does it, General?" Samson exploded. "You went ahead with it anyway. You conducted your own private little war."

  "Why are you doing this, sir?" Patrick asked. He was not pleading-it was a true query, asked honestly and sincerely. "We brought Dewey and Deverill home safely-"

  "No, the President brought them home safely," Samson argued. "The President was on the phone with Russian president Sen'kov for less than ten minutes and had him agreeing to allow the exfiltration to go ahead without interference. In fact, the President had gotten Sen'kov to agree not to shoot your asses down-he not only saved Dewey and Deverill, but he saved yours, Briggs's, and Wohl's butts as well. Pretty extraordinary, since you had already illegally shot down three Russian aircraft by then."

  "So you've already decided we're guilty of courtmartialable offenses?" Luger asked. "You've decided that

  we're guilty, so you're asking us to resign rather than face i charges?" Y "It doesn't matter at this point, Colonel-I believe you're

  guilty of breaking faith with me, the men and women you serve with, the Air Force, and your country," Samson said. "I have

  judged you guilty of that. I'm advising you of all this because I thought you both deserve an opportunity to accept retirement and avoid any blemishes

  on your records. I advise you to take the offer. Even if you win in a court-martial, you'll never work here again, and I seriously doubt if there's any command in the Air Force that will accept either one of you."

  Patrick got to his feet and took a step toward Samson's desk. "Permission to speak freely, General?"

  "This will be your last opportunity to do so."

  "What are you really afraid of, sir?" Patrick asked. "What did I do that is forcing you to give me a summary dismissal? Are you afraid I made you look bad in front of the President?"

  "You definitely did that, General," Samson said. "I was for damned sure the dumb-shit nigger general who can't keep his hotshot troops in line. But you already cemented that thought into Washington's head earlier with your one-man operation over China and with stealing the One-Eleventh's bombers to work for your project here at Dreamland. It's Brad Elliott's wild-card reputation, shifted over to you by default. You're Patrick McLanahan. You're the technical wizard, the lone wolf. Everyone else around you are bit players in your one-man play to keep the world safe for democracy. My career was over the minute I was assigned here with you.

  "Most of all, McLanahan, I'm afraid of what you're becoming," Samson went on. "I knew Brad Elliott. He was a friend, my teacher, and my mentor. But he changed into something to be feared in my Air Force-the rogue, the loose cannon. His way or no way. I got away from him as soon as I could, and I knew I made the right decision."

  "I was proud to work with him," McLanahan said. "I was, too," said Luger. "He saved my life. Twice."

  "But you both stayed too long, and you got corrupted by his twisted visions of good and evil, right and wrong, duty and vanity, responsibility and bigotry," Samson said. "Sure, Brad got things done. Yes, he was a hero, to me and to a lot of folks. But he did it all wrong. He did it irresponsibly. He did it illegally. Your hero, Patrick, David, and mine, was wrong. Either you couldn't see it, or you ignored it. Or maybe you liked it. You enjoyed the power and freedom this job gave you. 'Ab-

  solute power corrupts absolutely,' and there's nothing like the power of a two-hundred-and-fifty-ton B-52 on an attack run. Is there?"

  Samson stood up, leaned forward on his desk, and let his eyes bore into McLanahan's. "The only way he could be stopped, Patrick, was to die. If you were allowed to keep on doing what you did over Russia, and you got to pin on three or four stars, or were selected to run the Department of Defense, or advise the President on national security policy, or even become president yourself-you'd be just as dangerous to world peace as Brad was.

  "The only way to stop you, Patrick, is either for someone in authority to slap you down, hard, or die yourself. That's the final outcome I'm trying to save you from: dying as an imperfect, desperate, schizophrenic man, like Brad Elliott. I have the authority as your commanding officer to do something before you corrupt the world with your brand of ambush-style warfighting. The buck is stopping here. I only wish someone had stopped Brad before he went over to the dark side."

  "Brad ... Brad was none of those things, General Samson," David Luger said, in a small, quivering voice. They did not hear him mutter something else beneath his breath, something in Russian.

  "You say you knew him so well-I say that's bullshit," Patrick snapped. "You only think you knew him. I think all you really wanted was a nice, comfortable command, to wear your stars but not shake up the system too much. Brad Elliott did just the opposite. They gave him three stars and a command like no one else's, even though he pissed off half of Washington on a regular basis. He created machines and aviators that had real courage and real determination. Even after they fired him, he still came back a hero. He's saved the world a dozen times, sir. Is it my insubordination that makes you angry-or is it your own frustration at never having taken your bombers into battle?"

  "I'm not frustrated about never being in battle, General," Samson retorted, perhaps a little too vehemently. "No real soldier ever wants war, and they sure as hell don't regret never going. It is enough for me to serve my country in whatever way

  I'm asked, whether it's slopping tar on runways in Thailand in one-hundred-degree weather or leading the world's greatest military research facility. I don't go around creating wars to fight in." That comment hit home with Patrick. He lowered his eyes and stepped back away from Samson's desk.

  "End of discussion," Samson said. "The charges stand, General, Colonel. Submit your retirement requests by seventeen hundred hours or I prefer the charges to the judge advocate general."

  "Don't wait until then, sir," David Luger said. "I can give you my answer now: I'm not voluntarily resigning or retiring. I've been through too much in the past few years just to give it a away. If you want to penalize me, just do it."

  "I recommend you think about it some more," Samson said sternly. "You have too much at stake to risk your retirement and honorable discharge. Your background and ... other factors might not make you a popular or extremely sought-after candidate for a corporate or other government position."

  "Excuse me, General?" Luger asked, far more politely than Patrick would have. " Ty shto, ahuyel? "

  "What was that? What did you just say, Luger?" Samson exploded. David did not reply, but seemed to wither under Samson's booming voice and averted his eyes to the floor, his arms straight down at his sides. "I've been watching you for the past several weeks, Colonel Luger, and especially since that Ukrainian general showed up. You reported your former contact with that man and detailed some of your experiences with him in Lithuania, but then refused to take leave while the Ukrainian contingent was here. That was a big mistake in judgment that I believe has emotionally and psychologically unbalanced you."

  "What?" McLanahan retorted.

  "You could be a danger to yourself and to HAWC," Samson went on. "You're obviously failing to recognize this, both of you. If you don't retire, I'll be forced to have you confined as a matter of national security as well as the safety of this facility."

  David Luger didn't look stunned, or surprised, or angry, or even disappointed-he looked completely hollow. He stood

  motionless; his head bowed, his arms hanging limply at his sides, as if in complete surrender or emotional shutdown. Patrick McLanahan exploded. "Hey, Dave, forget about all

  that! He's full of shit," he shouted. No reaction. He took David by the shoulders and shook him, gently at first, and then harder. "Dave. You okay, Texas?"

  At that moment, Hal Briggs and two of his security officers entered the office. Every room at Dreamland was continually monitored with video and audio, and security units were trained to respond to even a hint of violence or a breach in security. One of the Security Force officers had his M
P5K submachine gun drawn and at port arms; the other had his hand on the handgrip of his weapon but did not draw it. Briggs had his hand on his pearl-handled .45-caliber automatic pistol-the one that had once belonged to Lieutenant General Brad Elliott, his mentor-but had not drawn it either.

  "Dave! Dave, are you all right?" McLanahan cried to his friend and partner. It appeared as if Luger was in a sernicatatonic state, unable to move or respond. "Jesus, Hal, it's like his entire voluntary nervous system has shut down. Call the chopper and let's get him airlifted to Las Vegas now." Briggs and the second security officer safetied their weapons and quickly, firinly, took McLanahan and Luger out of Samson's office, while the third man continued to cover the action with his drawn weapon.

  As he was being hustled out, McLanahan turned to Samson and said, "We're not finished here, Samson."

  "Seventeen hundred hours, General," Samson responded. "On my desk. Or else."

  On the Albania-Macedonia border That evening

  Once one of the world's greatest empires under Alexander the Great, the Republic of Macedonia had been in an almost constant state of occupation and combat for over two thousand years, brutally repressed and colonized by Rome, Byzantium, the Huns, the Visigoths, Turkey, Bulgaria, Greece, Nazi Ger-

  many, and Serbia. It was not until the 1980 death of Yugoslavian strongman Josip Broz, known as Marshal Tito, and the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1992, that Macedonia was able to slip out of the grasp of regional overseers and declare itself an independent democratic republic.

  But independence was not without conflict. Macedonia had been a "melting pot" of many different ethnic and religious peoples for thousands of years, and now they all wanted a say in the direction and future of their newly

  independent republic. Those forces-Albanians, Greeks, Serbs, Slavs, Turks, and Bulgars-all sought to drive the new nation apart and carve it up for themselves.

  As a result, most of Macedonia's borders were heavily armed and fortified, and the nation invested heavily in counterinsurgency and border patrol forces. Border skirmishes, especially between Muslim Albania and Orthodox Christian Macedonia, were so common and so brutal that almost since its first day of membership, United Nations peacekeepers had been sent to Macedonia to try to keep the peace and settle border claims between it and its neighbors. Macedonia had become a favorite route for Albanian gunrunners to ship weapons to Kosovo Liberation Army rebels, and there had been many border skirmishes between Macedonian Army forces and wellequipped smugglers.

  The government of Macedonia vowed to vigorously defend its borders against any nation that tried to violate its sovereignty and neutrality, but it was a poor nation, with only a small conscript army, so it was forced to ask for outside help. The U.S.-led North Atlantic Treaty Organization was allowed to stage security, surveillance, and supply missions out of bases in Macedonia during the Kosovo conflict. In return, Macedonia was made a member of the "Partnership For Peace," the group of prospective NATO members, was offered millions of dollars in military and economic aid by the West, and was being considered for full membership in the European Union and the World Trade Organization.

  Some of the bloodiest battles between Albanian gunrunners and Macedonian police and border guards were near the town of Struga, on the northern shore of Lake Ohrid in the Vardar

  Valley of southwestern Macedonia. It was an easy, straight shot northward up the valley to the Yugoslavian province of Kosovo and the heart of central Europe, and southbound to Lake Ohrid and eventually to the Aegean Sea. The city of Ohrid, a few miles away, was known as the "Jerusalem of the Balkans" because of its combination of Christian---Catholic, Episcopal, Orthodox-and Muslim holy sites, churches, mosques, monasteries, cathedrals, along with several castles and fortifications dating back to the rule of Alexander the Great.

  After the attack on Kukes, tensions on the MacedoniaAlbania border were at a fever level. Army of the Republic of Macedonia troops, in retaliation for Albanian cross-border raids and skirmishes, were suspected of setting off the two massive explosions at the carpet factory in Kukes, Albania, killing hundreds. The Albanian Army was looking for revenge. Sniper, guerrilla, and sabotage attacks along the border rose in frequency and intensity, threatening to set off a large-scale war. The tiny Army of the Republic of Macedonia boasted more modern weapons than its adversary to the west, supplied mostly by the United States in years past, but Albania had the tactical and numerical advantage. Albania enjoyed a three-toone manpower advantage, a four-to-one artillery advantage, and a six-to-one armored personnel carrier advantage, and those forces overlooked the Macedonian forces from the mountains along the border.

  T'hat's why it was hard for anyone to understand the reason why the Macedonian Army suddenly commenced an artillery barrage against several security outposts west of Struga. Just before midnight, eyewitnesses claimed that two self-propelled

  70-millimeter artillery units opened fire on two Albanian observation posts-little more than wood and rock shacks---that overlooked Lake Ohrid.

  The Albanian Army immediately returned fire. The border defense positions were not equipped with any Modern sensors or special equipment for artillery duels at night-no night vision, no counterfire radar-so it was rather amazing that the self-propelled artillery units that were suspected of opening fire first were hit and completely destroyed by the first volley of return fire. But the Albanians didn't stop there. Once the

  SPAs were destroyed, the nearest Macedonian firebase was next, then the nearest main base, and finally the city of Struga itself For the next three hours, the Albanian Army pounded the city with artillery and rocket fire from eleven

  positions overlooking the city, some as far as eight miles away.

  "Perfect," Gennadi Yegorov, the weapons officer aboard the Metyor-179 stealth fighter-bomber, said. "The Albanians are reacting better than we anticipated."

  The plan was simple. Some of Pavel Kazakov's men in Macedonia had stolen and driven the two artillery pieces-both mobile but not capable of firing a round-from an armory in Bitola. The self-propelled artillery pieces were undergoing maintenance and had had their gun barrels removed, so they looked like ust another military vehicle as they rumbled down i

  the highway. In only three hours, they made the drive west to Struga and waited.

  Meanwhile, the Mt- 179 launched from its secret base near Codlea. With the NATO AWACS aircraft out of the action-it had not yet been replaced until whoever had shot the first one down had been discovered-it was child's play to make the flight from Codlea across Romania, Bulgaria, Kosovo, and Macedonia to Ohrid. The Mt-179 was loaded with four heatseeking air-to-air missiles in its wing root launchers, along with four laser-guided missiles in its weapons bay. The Metyor-

  179 had a powerful imaging infrared and low-light TV sensor in.a retractable pod in the nose, along with a laser target illuminator.

  Once the dummy self-propelled artillery units were rolled into place and Kazakov's men hightailed it for safety, the charade began. One quick twin launch on the observation posts from fifteen miles away, a two-minute three-sixty turn, and a second twin ripple launch on the SPAs to erase the evidence, and the stunt was complete. Kazakov's operatives had placed infrared emitters on the artillery units and near the border observation posts to make it easier for Yegorov to find and attack the targets from maximum range.

  "Eta 1'ehchi chim dva palltsa abassat. It was easier than

  pissing on two fingers," Ion Stoica remarked, as they started to receive radio messages about the rapidly intensifying fighting between Albania and Macedonia. "That attack had no business working, you realize that? The same with our departure from Zbukovsky and the success of our attack on Kukes."

  "We were lucky," Yegorov said. "It's sheer paranoia. Besides, those two were ready to fight anyway-they have been for almost ten years. We just provided a little push to get them going."

  "So we're contributing to the natural order and progression of political and cultural exchanges between fellow Bal
kan nations, eh?" Stoica asked, laughing. "I like that. We're humanitarians, working to make the world a better place by allowing the natural harmony and rhythms of the region to develop." Their second combat flight was even more successful than the first-and it provided the spark Kazakov needed to set the Balkans ablaze.

  Instead of returning to Romania, Stoica and Yegorov flew across Bulgaria and the Black Sea, on their way to a Metyorowned industrial facility and airstrip near Borapani, Republic of Georgia, the site of another Metyor pipeline. The return flight was smooth and uneventful. The Mt-179 was enjoying a brisk tailwind over the Black Sea that was pushing their ground speed to well over nine hundred kilometers an hour, even with the throttles pulled back to best-range economy power. At forty-one thousand feet, the sky was clear and the visibility unrestricted, with the stars shining so brightly that they appeared close enough to touch. There was a half moon on the rise, but it would be no factor-they would be on the ground long before anyone on the ground could see the aircraft with moonlight. Because of fuel considerations, they had already planned a steep, rapid descent at idle power through Georgian airspace instead of flying through Turkish coastal radar at low altitude, relying on the Tyenee's stealth characteristics to keep it invisible.

  Yegorov offered to watch the aircraft, and Stoica gratefully took a catnap while his weapons officer filled out his poststrike reports and recorded computer logs, with the autopilot handling the aircraft. The autopilot was set for constant-Mach

  hold, which adjusted aircraft altitude automatically as gross weight decreased so they could maintain the most fuel-efficient airspeed-the Mt-179 very gradually climbed as gross weight decreased, up to forty-five thousand feet, the aircraft's maximum operating altitude, or a lower altitude set by the pilot.