Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 05 (19 page)

 
          
“We
could, but we risk starting a huge
Middle East
war,” Patrick said. “We’d need a pretty thick scorecard to keep track of all
the alliances, cooperatives, economic unions, and religious factors in this
region.” Patrick began wiping a nearby table so he’d be better able to slip
away and avoid a prolonged conversation with these two. “We couldn’t count on
our old friends for help, because
Iran
is a pretty tough adversary, far stronger
than
Iraq
was. This time, both
Russia
and
China
are involved—on
Iran
’s side, not ours. And we’ve got fewer
bombers, tanks, ships, and men to fight a war. We’re pretty well on the
backside of the power curve on this one.” Patrick paused, then added, “Besides,
Steve
Canyon
types are just fiction.”

 
          
“Too
bad,” the blonde said.

 
          
“That
sounds like a fighter pilot talking,” the black gent observed. “You a flier?”

 
          
“I
was in the Air Force once,” Patrick said. “Didn’t do anything special. Put in
my years and punched out.” His blue eyes turned stormy once again, and he half
turned to the man and told him, “I’ll bring that beer right away.”

 
          
“Sure.
Thanks,” the guy said. As Patrick was walking back to the bar, the guy raised
his voice and added, “When you get back, maybe you can explain how a single
B-2A equipped like a Megafortress could slow down the Iranian advances without
triggering a
Middle
East
war.”

 
          
Patrick
tried hard to make no outward reaction to the word
Megafortress
, but inside his guts turned upside down. The
Megafortress had been one of his top-secret projects back when he was in the
Air Force—a highly modified B-52 bomber, what they referred to as a “flying
battleship,” designed for long-range heavy-precision strikes and to escort
other, less sophisticated bombers, such as unmodified B-52s, into the target
area. Several other Megafortresses had been built and flown—even flown in
combat, over
Lithuania
and
Belarus
—but they had all been dismantled and placed
in storage or destroyed when HAWC was disbanded. This guy knew about it, knew
about
him
, about his past. All that
information was highly classified. Was he a reporter? A foreign agent? An
industrial spy?

 
          
Remaining
calm, pretending he hadn’t heard the guy, Patrick nonchalantly set the man’s
beer mug on the bar. “Hank, pour him another
Adams
,” Patrick said, then headed immediately
into the office.

 
          
“Sure,
boss. Hey, I’m gonna need ...” But Patrick was already through the office door,
practically at a dead run.

 
          
As
soon as he closed the door behind him, he said, “Wendy, head out the back, take
the cell phone, and call OSI.” OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special
Investigations, was their point of contact should anyone try to contact them
regarding any classified information. Their nearest office was at Beale Air
Force Base up in Marysville, about an hour away, but if they had any agents in
the area, someone could be by there right away to intercept. Or maybe they’d
call the FBI or U.S. Marshal’s office in
Sacramento
for help . ..

 
          
“I
think its too late for that, dear,” Wendy said. There, standing next to Wendy,
was a stranger in a black trench coat and wearing black gloves.

 
          
Patrick
didn’t hesitate. He quickly stepped forward until he reached the desk, then
shoved the computer monitor off its stand at the stranger. The guy
instinctively grabbed at the monitor flying toward him, which distracted him
and brought his face down to the perfect level—so Patrick swung his right fist,
putting his entire two hundred pounds behind it, connecting squarely in the
middle of the stranger’s left temple. He went down with a muffled grunt and lay
still, knocked cold.

 
          
“God,”
Wendy gasped as she stared at the unconscious stranger. “Patrick,
wait”

 
          
Without
stopping, Patrick stepped on and over the stranger, grabbed Wendy’s left arm,
and steered her toward the back of the office to the back door. “Head toward
the coffee shop down the street—they’ll be open, and the cops hang out there,”
Patrick told Wendy. “Tell them there’s five out front, one black male, three
white males, one white—”

 
          
“What
in hell is going on back here! ” a voice thundered behind him. Patrick whirled
around and saw the black gent and the woman standing at the office door. The
black guy was bug-eyed as he looked first at Patrick, then at the unconscious
guy on the floor with the computer monitor lying on his chest, then back at
Patrick. The woman studied the scene the same way, but her face registered
immense glee. “What do you think you’re doing, McLanahan?”

 
          
“Wendy,
go!”
Patrick tried to pull her toward
the door, but she was not moving. “Wendy, what’s wrong?”

 
          
“Patrick,
sweetie, you just knocked a Secret Service agent out cold,” Wendy said with a
smile.

 
          
“A what?”

           
“He’s a ‘who,’ dear,” Wendy
repeated, grinning broadly. “Special Agent Frank Zanatti, from
Washington
,
D.C.
He’s already showed me his ID. I tried to tell you, before you knocked
my monitor over.”

 
          
“Secret
Service?” Patrick looked at the unconscious guy in total confusion, then
pointed an angry finger at the large black guy standing in his office door.
“Then who the hell are
you?”

 
          
“I
am Philip Freeman, U.S. Army, retired, National Security Advisor to the
President of the
United States
,” Philip Freeman bellowed.

 
          
“Fr ... Freeman? General Freeman?”

           
“Don’t just stand there gaping,
Colonel,” Freeman shouted, “help Agent Zanatti up.” He half turned to the woman
beside him and ordered, “Colonel, give him a hand. I swear, McLanahan, if
you’ve killed him, we’ll all be skinned alive.”

 
          
The
woman standing beside Freeman hurried over to the fallen Secret Service agent.
As she did, she passed close by Patrick and, to his amazement, whipped off her
blond wig and handed it to him. “Hello, Colonel. Last time I saw you, you were
blasting that rat bastard Maraklov out of the sky in
Cheetah.
Never thought I’d ever see you asking me if I wanted a hot
appetizer. I couldn’t help laughing. Sorry.”

 
          
Patrick
blinked in total surprise:
“
Preston
?
Major Marcia Preston ... ?”

 
          
“Lieutenant
Colonel Preston, Patrick,” she said as she gave him a friendly hug.
Preston
had been former National Security Advisor
Deborah O’Day’s personal aide and bodyguard, a U.S. Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornet
fighter pilot, and one of the first female combat pilots in the American
military. “It’s nice to see you, but let’s get General Freeman’s man up off the
floor, shall we?” Patrick’s head was swimming in confusion as they helped
Zanatti to an armchair and revived him. After he was up and around,
Preston
stood and walked over to Wendy and extended
a hand. “You must be Dr. Wendy Tork .. . er, Dr. Wendy McLanahan. Marcia
Preston.” They shook hands. “I’ve only flown once with your husband, but it was
a ride I’ll never forget.”

 
          
“This
is Wendy Tork?” Freeman asked in surprise. He too walked over and extended a
hand in greeting. “It somehow didn’t show up in any files that you two were
married. Congratulations. I assume it was just before your . . . accident.”

 
          
“That’s
right, General.”

 
          
“It
was an unfortunate, tragic incident, a huge and incredible loss,” Freeman said,
“but out of the ashes will come a newer, even stronger force.”

 
          
He
turned to Patrick and said, “I must ask a favor, Patrick. I need to speak to
you right away, and since I see you’re one of the only ones on duty, it might
be better if you closed up early. We have a lot to discuss. The White House
will see to it that you’re compensated for your lost time.”

 
          
The
dark, cold expression came over Patrick’s face. “Somehow, I doubt that,” he
said, “but since you’ve probably scared all the other customers out already
...”

 
          
“Unfortunately,
yes,” Freeman acknowledged with a wry smile.

 
          
“I
guess we don’t have much choice ... as usual,” Patrick said, and he went to
close and lock the doors.

 
          
Freeman’s
men swept Wendy and Patrick’s apartment for listening devices in just a few
minutes—thankfully, there were none—and they sat down to talk over coffee and
fresh fruit. Freeman winced as he put a slice of fresh kiwi up to his nose,
wishing he had a nice thick, gooey doughnut instead, but he seemed to enjoy the
kiwi and helped himself to a slice of mango next. “We’re nicknaming it Future
Flight,” the President’s National Security Advisor began. “I’m bringing back
your team, Patrick, at least as many as we can. Being the senior member, I want
you to command the team. I borrowed Colonel Preston here from the Marine Corps
again, and she’ll be your deputy.”

 
          
“What
exactly are we going to do, General?” Patrick asked.

 
          
“Anything
and everything,” Freeman replied. “The purpose of Future Flight is to support
specialized intelligence operations with long-range, stealthy aerial assets—in
particular, a certain B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, which you knew as Test
Article Number Two, assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center,
and which you tested and flew for two years, loaded with various payloads, including
reconnaissance, communications, intelligence, and combat strike.”

 
          
“Sounds
pretty. . . open-ended,” McLanahan observed warily. “A license to kill, so to
speak.”

 
          
“You’ll
be attached to the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency— you’ll report to Major General
Brien Griffith. He’ll report to me ... ”

 
          
“And
you report to the President,” Patrick interjected. Freeman nodded. “Sounds
awfully dangerous to me—lots of chances for abuse.”

 
          
“You
did it all the time when you were a member of HAWC—”

 
          
“And
look what happened to us,” Patrick snapped. “HAWC is closed down, General
Elliott was demoted and forced to retire, and everyone else was scattered to
the four winds or kicked out. Lots of careers and reputations were ruined,
General. If we wanted to appeal those verdicts, we’d have been thrown in prison
for life for violating national security—”

 
          
“You
retired with an honorable discharge and a pension after only sixteen years of
active-duty service, Colonel,” Freeman pointed out. “You made out pretty well,
I’d say.”

 
          
“Only
because Brad Elliott used the last of his political markers to get us some
leniency,” Patrick said. “Only because I agreed not to talk, not to go to the
press, not to sue. I’m not proud of the way I exited, sir. One reason I’m not
in the service and doing what I was trained to do is because Brad did
everything the White House and the Pentagon wanted of him, and he was branded a
loose cannon and taken down. My only other options were a less-than-honorable
discharge or a demotion and reassignment to a remote non-flying specialty.