Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (40 page)

 
          
“Becoming
more and more of a reality, sir, considering what’s happened,” Freeman replied.
“Last year, despite their threats, I would’ve said it was virtually impossible.
Last week, I’d have thought it was improbable. Now I think it’s possible that
we could see more low-yield attacks against Taiwan ...” He paused, then added,
“... and possibly Okinawa, Guam, South Korea, even Japan. Like you said, sir,
the genie’s out of the bottle.”

 
          
The
President slumped in his chair and put a weary hand on his forehead, shielding
his eyes as if fighting off a massive headache. “Damn,” he muttered. “Was it a
mistake to send those bombers over the Strait? Would any of this be happening?”

 
          
“I
think it would be ten times worse, Mr. President,” Jerrod Hale said.

 
          
“I
agree,” Freeman added. “Quemoy might be a smoking hole in the ocean, and
Formosa might be under attack as well. Those bombers—in fact, that
one
bomber—deterred the PLAN from
continuing their attack.”

 
          
“But
we weren’t talking about China destroying Okinawa, Guam, or Japan before,” the
President said. “Shit, maybe it would’ve been better if they succeeded in their
invasion.”

 
          
“Then
we’d still be here, talking about our options—except China would have attacked
and perhaps destroyed an independent, capitalist, pro-America democracy in
Asia,” Freeman said. “Sir, this isn’t your fault—the People’s Republic of China
is driving events here, not you. The best we can do is anticipate, react, and
hope we don’t escalate the conflict any faster than it’s already moving.”

 
          
The
President stopped and considered that point of view, then nodded his agreement.
“Sometimes I don’t know if it’s my guilty conscience, or the press, that makes
me think I’m responsible for every disaster in the world these days,” the
President said. “But I’m not going to sit on my ass and watch China or anyone
else start World War Three.”

           
He paused again, shaking his head as
if scarcely believing the words that were forming in his head. Finally, he
said, “Philip, contact Arthur and George Balboa—I want the commanders in place
to prepare to put our nuclear forces back on alert.” The Presidents study
seemed to get very quiet, as if all of the air had suddenly been sucked out of
the room; even the unflappable Jerrod Hale had a shocked expression on his
face. “I want it done as quietly as possible. Just the commanders for now—no
aircraft, no subs, no missiles. I want them formed up and ready to start
accepting their weapons, but they don’t get any weapons until I give the word.”
Hale looked at the President, silently asking, “What about Balboa? ”—he knew
that there was no way this could be kept quiet with Balboa chairing the Joint
Chiefs of Staff. But the President remained resolute.

 
          
Freeman
nodded. “HI draft up an executive order for your review and signature,” he
said. “The order will stand up the Combined Task Forces inside U.S. Strategic
Command. The CTFs will meet in Omaha and organize their staffs, but nothing
else until you give the word.” The President nodded absently—he could afford to
forget that aspect of this growing threat for now. But Freeman pressed another
problem into the foreground: “What about McLanahan and the Megafortresses? Keep
them on patrol for now?”

 
          
The
President recognized that Freeman had phrased the question carefully,
interjecting his own opinion into the question—he wanted the EB-52s, with their
powerful offensive and defensive weapons, to stay. The President nodded. “As
long as they pass a security review, they stay on patrol.”

 
          
“Balboa
probably won’t like that,” Hale offered.

 
          
“Probably
not,” the President responded. “But the reason we sent those things out
there—because we needed something out there right away, something that could
keep an eye on the Chinese and respond in case the shooting started—has come to
pass. We need them now more than ever.”

 
          
“Admiral
Balboa will call for sending in the carriers,” Freeman said.

 
          
“No
way I’m going to send them in now—they’d be sitting ducks for another nuclear
attack,” the President said immediately. “I’m not going to send any carriers
into the region. We got one carrier in Japan and the other near Pearl Harbor?”

 
          
Freeman
nodded. “Both are ready to get under way as soon as ordered. The
Independence
can be in the area in less
than two days.
Washington
in about
four days.”

 
          
“Good,”
the President said. “If we need them, I’ll send them in— until then, we put
diplomatic
pressure on China to back
off, and we keep the Megafortresses on station. Now let’s finish up what in
hell we’re going to tell the media, before someone else fires another shot at
my backside.”

U.S.
PACIFIC
COMMAND
COMMAND
CENTER
,
PEARL
HARBOR
,
HAWAII

TUESDAY, 3 JUNE 1997
,
2031 HOURS LOCAL (
4
JUNE, 0131
HOURS ET)

           
Now entering the videoconference,
the computer-synthesized voice announced, lieutenant general bradley elliott,
retired; colonel

 
          
PATRICK
MCLANAHAN, RETIRED; MAJOR NANCY CHESHIRE, USAF, ANDERSEN AIR FORCE BASE, GUAM.
CLASSIFICATION, TOP SECRET. VOICE AND DATA SERVICES TERMINATED; PLEASE CHECK
OPERATIONAL SECURITY AND REENTER security access codes. A moment later: thank
you. full videoconference SERVICES ACTIVATED.

 
          
When
the large LCD flat-plate monitor came to life, what Lieutenant General Terrill
Samson saw came as a welcome relief: Brad Elliott, Patrick McLanahan, and Air
Force Major Nancy Cheshire, alive and well. The Sky Masters, Inc.,
satellite-based teleconference established a secure, real-time voice, video,
and datalink between several different offices around the world: from U.S.
Pacific Command headquarters at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, where he and Admiral
William Allen, commander of U.S. Pacific Command, waited; the Joint Chiefs’
“Gold Room” Conference Center at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.; all the way
to the three aviators in a secure hangar at Andersen Air Force Base on the
island of Guam.

 
          
Samson
let a long, deep sigh of relief escape his lips. “Good to see you folks,” he
said.

 
          
“It’s
even better to be seeing
you,
sir,”
Cheshire responded. “Believe me.”

 
          
“I
believe you, Major,” Samson said with a wry smile. “I’m very sorry about
Lieutenant Vikram. My condolences to all of you.”

 
          
He
paused respectfully for a few moments, which gave him a chance to study the
three on the videoconference monitor. They all looked exhausted, absolutely
bone-tired . . . but Elliott looked worse. Samson knew that Elliott had been
hit by pieces of windscreen and the windblast when the Chinese Sukhoi-33
fighters attacked; he could see a bit of evidence of injury, but lots of evidence
of something else. Elliott looked whipped, almost ragged; his breathing
appeared labored, his lips slightly parted as if he were forced to breathe
through his mouth to get more air.

 
          
“What’s
happening now, Earthmover?” Elliott said. That voice had the same cockiness in
it—it sounded like the old Brad Elliott. He didn’t look so good, but the old
fire and steel was still in his voice and definitely still in his mental
attitude.

 
          
“We’re
waiting for the Pentagon to jump in on the videoconference,” Samson said. “I’d
like to ask a few questions before the CNO or JCS comes in.”

 
          
“No
one is responsible for Emil’s death or for what happened on this mission but
me, sir,” Patrick McLanahan said immediately. It was very obvious that Patrick,
as well as the others on camera from Andersen Air Force Base on Guam, had come
right from the plane to the videoconference after landing their crippled
bomber. All were wearing wrinkled flight suits, and had dark smudges under
their eyes; the men had ragged, unshaved faces. “I take full responsibility.”

 
          
“Stand
by one, Patrick,” Samson interjected. “I didn’t think I’d need to remind you,
since you’ve flown missions like this before, but the reality of the situation
is that
no one
is responsible for
what happened, because this incident
never
happened,
do you understand? Lieutenant Vikram died in the course of his
military duties—no other explanation is needed or will be offered. If it
becomes necessary, the government will pick the most mundane, unexciting,
plausible reason for Emil’s death, but it won’t be necessary, because everyone
involved, from Vikram’s family to the President of the United States, is
legally and morally bound to keep their mouths shut in the name of national
security. If they don’t, they will find that the blame will fall on
them.

 
          
“This
is also a good time to remind you folks that you are volunteers in a completely
black, highly classified government program,” Samson went on. “If you screw up,
your identities will be erased from all public or government records; if anyone
digs to find said records, they’ll find the dead themselves at fault. When you
step on board that monster, you cease to exist, and any memories of you will be
manipulated by the government that you sacrificed your life to serve. So it does
no good to blame yourselves, because no one is going to accuse or indict
you—they will either forget you or deny you. Everybody understand?”

 
          
No
reply, not even nods, from the three aviators. They all knew that it was a
screw job in the worst possible sense: they were going to risk their lives for
their country, and the best they could ever hope for is that they would be
completely forgotten by that same country, and that no one would ask any
questions about their deaths because the reply would trash their reputations.
“You also understand,” Samson went on grimly, “that you can excuse yourself
from this project at any time, without prejudice or harm to your careers?”
Again no response. “I take it that you all understand your rights and all the
realities here. Talk to me later if you like.

 
          
“We
are going to be joined on this teleconference in a few moments by a few other
parties, but first I wanted to find out how you guys are doing. I know it’s
hard on you because of the loss of Lieutenant Vikram. I’m very sorry. Please,
speak up.” There was no response. Samson gave them a few more moments, then
urged them, “You were just involved in a nuclear exchange. You went
head-to-head with over fifty armed Chinese warships. You saw hundreds of
sailors get killed and injured, some by your hand. Are you guys doing okay?”

 
          
“What
do you want us to say, sir?” Nancy Cheshire finally spoke out. “We got Emitter
killed, and we got our butts shot up. We stopped the PLAN, I think, but I don’t
know if it was worth Emil getting killed. I have a feeling, when we hear from
JCS and CINCPAC, that the answer to that will be ‘no.’ ”

 
          
“I’ll
give you an answer, Earthmover—we were hung out to dry,” Brad Elliott said
angrily. “We were strung out by you, by the Navy, by the White House. You sent
us into a no-win situation where the only way we could make a difference, the
only way we could use the power we had at our command to do some good, was to
disobey orders.”

 
          
“Brad,
c’mon,” McLanahan said wearily. “We’re not accusing anyone right now. We knew
what we were doing.”

 
          
“Patrick’s
right, Brad—you knew the game you were playing long before wheels-up in
Blytheville, Arkansas,” Samson said. “You knew you were going to be given a
short leash. You knew the brass didn’t support you. You knew the Navy didn^t
want you. But you launched anyway. Once over the cover area, you could’ve just
obeyed orders and watched
Quemoy
get
incinerated—but you acted. We’re all going to pay for that decision.”