Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (47 page)

 
          
“Not
to mention that relations are bad enough between us and
Mexico
,” Secretary of Defense Stuart said,
“without us shooting missiles all over their territory.”

 
          
General
Kane, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, turned to General Board. “I expect to see
the discharge papers on those crewmen that violated Mexican airspace.”

           
Board nodded unhappily.

           
“That would be unwise, sir,” Elliott
said to the President. What the hell, he might as well speak up ... “The first
two F-15 pilots were following orders by going along with their formation
leader. They’re trained not to leave their leader’s wing under any
circumstances, and especially if they’re involved in a hostile situation. They
turned back as soon as they lost their leader, as ordered. The crew of Cheetah
were following
my
orders. After
DreamStar downed the F-15S, I knew that the advanced-technology F-15 from Dreamland
was the only fighter capable of going head-to-head with the XF-34, so I ordered
Cheetah armed, to pursue DreamStar at best speed.”

           
“General Elliott,” Secretary Stuart
said, “do you think you have your own private air force out there? You don’t
order an attack on an enemy airfield, the President of the
United States
does that. You don’t authorize military
forces to cross a foreign border, the
President
does.”

 
          
“There
wasn’t time to get permission, Mr. Secretary. If we wanted DreamStar back,
Cheetah was our best hope. There wasn’t time to debate the question—”

 
          
“
‘Wasn’t time’? That’s bullshit, General. You don’t ignore the military chain of
command because you think you don’t have the time. What was next—bomb
Mexico
for letting that plane get away? Nuke
Mexico City
?”

 
          
Deborah
O’Day spoke up. “I’m familiar with General Elliott’s record and I think he
acted at least understandably. If his crewmen could have stopped DreamStar they
and he would have been called heroes. He took a risk, it almost paid off . . .
The question is, what do we do about DreamStar now?”

           
“Do we even know precisely
where
this DreamStar is right now?” the
President asked.

 
          
“We
tracked it almost its entire flight,” General Board said, “via the Reserve 707
AWACS at first, then by an advanced 767 AWACS launched from Oklahoma and
patrolling off-shore over the Gulf. The XF-34 successfully evaded attack by
Mexican and Honduran fighter patrols, with a little help from Nicaraguan
interceptors, and it landed in Nicaragua.”

 
          
Board
nodded to an assistant who put a mounted chart of central America up on an
easel in the center of the Oval Office. “The fighter was last seen on radar
somewhere north of Managua. We believe it’s being kept at a small, isolated
valley airbase fifty miles north of Managua called Sebaco. The base is run by
the Soviet military—more specifically, by the KGB.”

           
He turned to the President. “Sir,
I’ve ordered satellite reconnaissance of the area. Photo observation by
aircraft would be a good idea too, perhaps by the old SR-71 Blackbird still
operated by the CIA, but Managua is heavily defended by anti-aircraft artillery
and missiles and is a riskier operation. A soft probe is also recommended.”

 
          
“A
‘soft probe.’ You mean agents?”

 
          
“CIA
has assets in Managua that can possibly get close enough to verify that the
XF-34 is at Sebaco,” Board said.

 
          
“And
if they do? Let’s say they have it at Sebaco, or in Managua. We’re sure as hell
not going to go in with the Eighty- second Airborne or the Atlantic Second
Fleet and start a war to retrieve a jet fighter ...”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir,” Elliott said, “but it’s not just another jet fighter.”

 
          
“Hold
it. Hold on one minute, General,” the President said. “I was waiting for you to
say that. Let me tell you right now, General, and all of you in this room—that
XF-34 is just another jet fighter in the large scheme of things. It’s not some
magical war machine, no matter how advanced it is. It’s very important, damn
right, but the United States won’t start a shooting war with the Soviets or
anybody else over this aircraft. Sure, the sonofabitches infiltrated our base,
stole the plane, killed our people. We’ll lodge protests, we’ll demand the
plane back, we’ll coerce and threaten as much as possible. I’m betting they’ll
deny having it. They can stall forever by denying everything we say. Even if we
have pictures, they can say the photos were faked. And if we
do
produce irrefutable evidence, they’ll
have a propaganda field day . . . ‘Soviet agent infiltrates top- secret
American military base, steals top-secret experimental aircraft.’ The
condemnation of them will be more than drowned out by the laughing aimed at
us.
”

 
          
Elliott
hoped he never needed to look at
that
much of the so-called big picture. God ... “We can’t let them get away with
it,” he persisted.

 
          
“They
have
gotten away with it, General
Elliott,” the President said. “For all we know they could be taking it apart
right now and shipping it off to Moscow. What would you have us do? Intercept
every ship, every aircraft, every submarine that leaves Nicaragua, board it and
search for a component to a fighter plane? Face it, Elliott—you lost it.
We
lost it.”

 
          
The
President glared at Elliott’s taut face, shook his head. “I’ll ask Dennis
Danahall at State to lodge a stiff protest with the Soviets. We do have that
tape of that agent—what’s his name? Maraklov . . . ? admitting he was a KGB
agent.”

 
          
“The
KGB will say he was just a nut-case American soldier,” General Kane said,
“claiming to be a Russian spy. We’ve had our share ...”

 
          
“I’m
still going to order Dennis to protest this incident in the strongest language.
I’ll ask for the return of the aircraft and compensation to the families of the
crew on that B-52 and the fighters that were shot down during the chase. I want
some options we can use in case, when they give us the runaround. We can
threaten to cancel our participation in that joint trip to Mars in 1998 ... I
was never in favor of that cockeyed idea anyway. And we can—”

 
          
“We’ve
already made a substantial commitment to the Mars project, Lloyd,” Richard
Benson said.

 
          
“Well,
State has got to think of
something
to back up our protest. Kick out some of their embassy staff, raid one of their
consulates ...”

 
          
“Sir,
those are all positive steps ...” Elliott began, steaming. “But—”

 
          
“Glad
you think so, General.” The President motioned to his chief of staff, Cesare,
who quickly rose and moved across to open the inner door to the Oval Office; to
the generals in the room, opening a door was a cue to stop talking, part of
their fear of being overheard outside. To the others it was word that the
meeting was over. Both messages were lost on Elliott.

 
          
“Mr.
President, none of those actions will help us get DreamStar back. We could use
some very low-level activities that can send a clear message that we mean business.
I have some suggestions—”

 
          
“You
have your orders, General. Good morning.” Cesare, a large ex-football player,
stepped casually in front of Elliott, physically shutting off the conversation.

 
          
Elliott
turned and left the Oval Office. He was heading for the main hallway to the
rear portico when he spotted Deborah O’Day ahead and called out to her.

 
          
She
turned and waited as he walked up to her. She was a bit younger than Elliott,
with long dark hair flecked with gray, bright blue eyes, and an athletic
figure. Interesting about her eyes, Elliott thought—there were men and women he
had worked with for years but still had no idea what color their eyes were. Now
he met this woman for the first time and noticed her eyes right away.

 
          
“Mrs.
O’Day . . .”

 
          
“Miss
O’Day, General,’’ she said, taking his hand and returning a firm grip. “But
that’s the Oval Office name. In the halls it’s Debbie.’’

 
          
Elliott
smiled. He hadn’t done this kind of byplay maneuvering in years. “And I’m
Brad.’’

 
          
They
walked along the corridor until they came to an open doorway with a female
Marine Corps officer behind a computer terminal and a male secretary leafing
through some files inside the office. The secretaries’ desks flanked a pair of
closed oaken doors.

 
          
The
Marine moved quickly to her feet when O’Day entered the office, but her eyes
were on Elliott. “Good morning,” she said. “Intelligence digest is on your
terminal, ma’am. Coffee’s fresh. Good morning, General Elliott.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Major. General Bradley Elliott, Major Marcia Preston, my operations
officer. General Elliott is the director of—”

 
          
“The
High-Technology Advanced Weapons Center. I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”

 
          
“Nice
to meet you, Major.”

 
          
The
male secretary stood, ignored Elliot and handed O’Day a folder full of papers.
“For your signature. I need them ASAP.”

 
          
“General
Elliott, Matt Conkle, my secretary.” Preston hit the remote door unlock switch,
and Elliott followed O’Day into her office and immediately heard the door lock
behind him.

 
          
“Your
secretary isn’t exactly a friendly type,” Elliott said.

 
          
“He
hates the idea of being a secretary to a woman, even if she’s the National
Security Adviser. He’s fine in his job, though. Marcia Preston is a rising
star. Was the Marine Corps’ first female F/A-18 fighter pilot. She was good.
Very good. But she got so much heat from being a female pilot that she was
bounced out for allegedly trying to seduce her squadron commander. Some things
never change. I discovered her filing memos in San Diego, still wearing her
flight suit, and brought her to Washington. She’d rather be in the cockpit—she
flies my helicopter and jet—and deserves whatever she wants. She just might be
giving you a call some time.”

           
“I’m probably not going to be
around—and maybe Dreamland won’t be there.”

 
          
“Don’t
be so pessimistic,” O’Day said, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and Elliott
and seating herself behind her desk. Elliott eased himself into a
leather-covered armchair and rebent his right leg under the chair.

 
          
O’Day
noticed. “That’s from your mysterious mission into the Soviet Union eight years
ago?” Elliott nodded. “You know, I can’t find any real information on that
mission in our records. It’s like it never happened.”

 
          
“It’s
better that way. It also took the lives of some fine men.”

 
          
“That
was the B-52 that the Russian spy shot down, wasn’t it?”

 
          
“Yes.
We called it the Old Dog. We had rebuilt and upgraded it after the mission over
Russia. It was the prototype of a new escort aircraft for strategic bombers. It
was on its first operational flight . . . Did you know that two crewmen from my
Old Dog mission died in that crash yesterday?”

 
          
“My
God.” She sat silent for a long moment.

 
          
“The
nav on that flight was one of the Great Experiment female combat flyers, in the
same group as Marcia Preston— the first female B-52 navigator. There was one
other female on that B-52,” Elliott continued. “A civilian. She was also on my
Old Dog crew back in 1988. She’s in critical condition at Brooks Medical Center
in San Antonio. Her husband was on my Old Dog crew too. He was one of the F-15
crew that went into Mexican airspace and tried to get the XF-34—as a matter of
fact he’s the DreamStar project director, Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan.”