Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (92 page)

 
          
Cheshire
looked over at Brad Elliott—and hesitated.
“Go!” she shouted at him. She grabbed the control stick. “I got the plane!
Go! Eject!”

 
          
To
Nancy Cheshire’s complete astonishment, Brad Elliott reached down beside his
ejection seat—and pulled the red manual man-seat separator knob, then reached
up and twisted the center of his five-point harness clasp on his chest. His
parachute shoulder straps and lap belt fell away with a clatter. He had
detached his parachute from his ejection seat and then opened up the clasp to
his parachute harness! He would never survive an ejection now!
“Brad, what in hell
. . .”

 
          
Brad
Elliott reached over and grasped his control stick and the throttles. “I got
the plane now,
Nancy
,” he said. “Get out of here.”

 
          
“Brad,
goddammit, don’t do this!”

 
          
“I
said,
ejectl
” Elliott shouted.

 
          
Nancy
Cheshire’s eyes were wide with fear, locked onto his with a questioning
stare... but somewhere in Brad Elliott’s reassuring eyes, she found the answer.
She touched his right hand in thanks, nodded, then assumed the proper ejection
position in her seat and fired her ejection- seat catapult.

 
          
“Finally,
I get some peace and quiet around here,” Brad Elliott said half aloud.

 
          
He
didn’t need an attack computer or even a compass to do what he needed to do
now. Off in the distance, he could see flashes of light from another heavy
barrage of antiaircraft fire—it was coming from the last Dong Feng-5
intercontinental nuclear ballistic missile site, the one that hadn’t yet been
destroyed. He steered his beautiful creation, his EB-52 Megafortress, right at
the tracers.

 
          
The
fire was still burning brightly on the right wing; he had no instruments, no
weapons, no jammers or countermeasures. But the Megafortress was still flying.
In Brad Elliott’s mind, it would always be still flying.

 
          
Ten
minutes and two fighter attacks later, it was still flying. It was still
flying, as fast and as deadly as the day, more than ten years ago, he’d rolled
onto his first bomb run over Dreamland in the Nevada desert, when he nosed the
giant bird over and down, aiming it directly for the door of the last Chinese
DF-5 ICBM missile silo. The Megafortress did not protest, did not try to fly
out of the crash dive, did not give any ground proximity warning. It was as if
it knew that this is what it was supposed to do, what was finally expected of
it.

 
          
“Patrick!
Wendy!”

           
“Here! ” Patrick shouted. Nancy
Cheshire limped over to the voice, and soon found Patrick and Wendy McLanahan.
Thankfully, both appeared unhurt. “You okay, Nance?” Patrick asked.

 
          
“I
think I broke my damned ankle,”
Cheshire
replied. “Wendy? You okay?”

 
          
“I’m
fine,” she replied. Patrick had her lying flat on her back, using their
parachutes as a sleeping bag to keep her comfortable. They both had plastic hip
flasks of water out and were sipping from them. “My back’s sore, but I’m okay.”
She touched her belly. “I think we’re all fine.”

           
“Did you find Brad?” Patrick asked
Cheshire
. No reply. “Nance? Did Brad make it out?”

           
As if in reply, they all looked to
the west as a bright flash of light and a huge column of fire rose into the
night sky. It was not a nuclear mushroom cloud, but the geyser of fire and the
billowing cloud of smoke reflecting the flames of the exploding DF-5 ICBM sure
resembled one. “My God!” Wendy exclaimed. “That’s where the DF-5 is, isn’t it?
Is Terrill Samson still flying bombers out here? How did . . . ?”

 
          
“Brad,”
Patrick breathed. He looked from the exploding DF-5 to Nancy Cheshire. “He
didn’t make it out, did he?”

 
          
“He
made it,”
Cheshire
replied with a smile. “He made it...
exactly where he wanted to go.”

 
 
 
         
“In general, in battle one endures through
strength and gains victory through spirit . . . When the heart’s foundation is
solid, a new surge of
ch’i
will bring
victory.”

 
          
—from
The
Methods of the Ssu-Ma,
Fourth century B.c. Chinese military text

 
          
BRUNEI
INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT
,
BANDAR
SERI BEGAWAN
, THE SULTANATE OF
BRUNEI

TUESDAY, 1
JULY 19 97
,
1200 HOURS LOCAL (
MONDAY,
30 JUNE, 2300
HOURS ET)

 
          
Oddly
enough, the jets that pulled off to an isolated part of Brunei International
Airport and maneuvered beside each other nose-to-tail were both Gulfstream IV
long-range business jets—but one was in the red and white livery of the Chinese
Civil Aeronautical Administration, and the other was in the plain white with
blue trim of the United States Air Force. Guards of the Sultan of Brunei’s
Gurkha Reserve Unit, the elite paramilitary palace guard, ringed the parking
ramp, while armored personnel carriers and heavily armed Humvees roamed the
area beyond.

 
          
The
inner guards seemed oblivious to the noise of the
Chinese
Gulf-
stream as it pulled into its assigned
parking spot. It did not shut down its engines. A set of stairs had been rolled
out and placed near the exit door on the port side of the Chinese Gulfstream;
the USAF Gulfstream had used an integral airstair that extended from the plane
itself, and the exit door was already open and ready. Two lines of GRU
commandos quickly formed between both sets of stairs, and one guard carrying an
infantry rifle was stationed at the top of the stairs of each plane.

 
          
The
door of the Chinese Gulfstream opened, and a lone man wearing a plain gray
tunic appeared and stepped down the stairs. At the same time, a lone individual
in a plain dark business suit walked down the USAF Gulfstream’s airstair. They
walked across the ramp between the two lines of armed GRU commandos and met in
the center of the tarmac. They regarded each other for a moment; then the
American made a slight, polite bow. The Chinese man smiled, made an even
slighter nod, then extended a hand. The American shook it hesitantly. No words
were exchanged. Both men turned, walked a few paces away, turned sideways in
front of the GRU commandos, then looked toward their respective aircraft.

 
          
At
that, several individuals began emerging from both the USAF and CAA jets and
stepped down the airstairs. Ten men wearing blue and white polyester jogging
suits and white running shoes emerged from the USAF jet; two women and one man,
wearing white baggy peasant’s outfits and sandals, stepped off the Chinese jet.
In single file, the two columns of individuals walked across the tarmac between
the GRU commandos. The men who came off the USAF jet walked more and more
quickly until they were virtually running up the airstairs into the Chinese
jet, but the American man and two women prisoners strode deliberately, proudly,
toward the USAF plane.

 
          
All
except the last man of each side. As if by some unspoken signal, the two men
slowed, then paused as they passed each other. The Chinese man straightened his
shoulders, then bowed to the other prisoner and said in English, “Good fortune
to you, Colonel Patrick Shane McLanahan. Happy Reunification Day.”

 
          
“Same
to you, Admiral Sun Ji Guoming,” Patrick McLanahan said. They bowed to each
other again. McLanahan glared at Chinese Minister of Defense Chi Haotian, gave
him a smile, then said in a loud voice, “Happy Reunification Day, Minister
Chi.” Chi Haotian’s face was an expressionless, stony mask as he turned and
headed quickly back to his waiting aircraft.

 
          
“Welcome
home, Colonel McLanahan,” the American in the dark business suit, Secretary of
Defense Arthur Chastain, said. He clasped McLanahan on the shoulder and steered
him toward the waiting Gulfstream.

 
          
“Whatever,”
McLanahan said tonelessly as he boarded the Air Force C-20H Gulfstream for the
long ride home. Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl, on guard at the top of the
airstairs with an M-16 rifle with a M-206 grenade launcher attached, gave
Patrick a “way to go” smile and nod as they passed one another. McLanahan did
not return the sentiment.

 
          
Only
when the wheels were up and they were heading east on their way back to the
United States
did Patrick McLanahan finally shed the
tears of joy, and tears of sorrow, that had been welling up in him for the past
ten years.

 
          
“Admiral
Sun Ji Guoming flew a Sukhoi-27 fighter right onto Kadena Air Base and
surrendered to the U.S. Air Force,” Secretary of Defense Chastain told him.
“Fie then asked to make a public statement on the international news. He said
who he was and said that he would reveal the government of
China
’s entire plan for the destruction and
recapture of
Taiwan
unless
China
agreed to a cease-fire and a prisoner exchange was arranged. Jiang
Zemin agreed immediately.”

 
          
They
had done a brief stopover in
Hawaii
, where the three exprisoners were examined
by doctors and found medically fit—there was no injury to Wendy and Patrick’s
child. Now they were somewhere over the southwest
United States
, almost home.

 
          
“Everyone
has pretty much backed off after your attack,” Chastain explained. “Of course,
almost all of
China
’s strategic forces had been knocked out by you and General Samson’s
bombers—all they had left were a few H-6 bombers and some mobile medium-range
missiles, nothing that could threaten the
United States
and virtually nothing that could threaten
its neighbors. Even North and
South Korea
seemed to have backed away from the DMZ,
although things there and in the
Middle East
are still pretty tense.” He paused, then added for about the sixth time since
leaving the prisoner swap in
Brunei
, “I’m sorry about General Elliott. He was a
genuine American hero.”

 
          
Patrick
wasn’t thinking about where they were headed—he assumed to a federal prison
somewhere—but he was shocked when the C-20H zoomed into a desert airfield.
Although there were no signs and no visible landmarks on the hazy
late-afternoon horizon, Patrick knew exactly where they were: the high desert
of south-central Nevada, beside the dry lake turned camouflaged airstrip at
Groom Lake, at the secret U.S. Air Force research base known as the High
Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, nicknamed Dreamland.

 
          
Well,
Patrick thought, he should have known. HAWC was not a military base anymore—it
certainly made a good federal prison, especially for suspects who broke the law
as badly as they did.

 
          
But
when the C-20H pulled up to its parking.spot next to the old base operations
building, he noticed that the buildings had a fresh coat of paint on them, there
was a new mobile control tower deployed on the dry lake bed, and the guards
waiting on the tarmac were not waiting to take him into custody—they were
guarding Marine One and Marine Two, the military VIP transport helicopters
belonging to the President of the United States.

 
          
President
Kevin Martindale was waiting for Patrick, Wendy, and Nancy Cheshire as they
stepped off the airstair onto the carpet covering the hot concrete parking ramp
at Dreamland. “Welcome home, Patrick, welcome home,” the President said warmly.
They were all there: National Security Advisor Philip Freeman, Air Force chief
of staff General Victor Hayes, Air Combat Command commander Steve Shaw, and
Eighth Air Force commander Terrill Samson. With them were Dave Luger, Jon
Masters, Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and Paul White. They all went inside the new
base operations building to escape the still-broiling heat of
Nevada
’s desert summer sun.

 
          
“Patrick,
you’ve done a great service to me and to the nation, and I just wanted to greet
you and tell you myself,” the President said. “You and your fellow crew members
have almost single-handedly averted a world war by your heroic actions.”

 
          
“Sorry,
but I don’t feel very heroic, sir,” Patrick said.

 
          
“Because
of General Elliott. I’m sorry for your loss, Patrick,” the President said
solemnly. “Brad Elliott was one helluva warrior. He was stubborn, determined,
and headstrong—and he was one of the best I’ve ever met. He’d probably hate
what I’m about to do—and I feel damn good thinking about him cursing my name
for all eternity.” The President steered Patrick toward a large covered sign on
the wall, and he pulled it off himself. The sign read: WELCOME TO ELLIOTT AIR
FORCE BASE,
GROOM
LAKE
,
NEVADA
, HOME OF THE HIGH TECHNOLOGY AEROSPACE
WEAPONS CENTER (USAF OPERATIONAL TEST AND EVALUATION CENTER DET. 1).

           
“Elliott Air Force Base?” Patrick
exclaimed. “But . . . how? I thought...”

 
          
“Yeah,
my predecessor closed down HAWC—I just opened it back up again,” the President
said. “Meet HAWC s first new commander— Lieutenant General Terrill Samson.
We’re still closing down Eighth Air Force, but Terrill has the same fire in his
belly that you and Brad Elliott have, so he’s the new boss here—and heaven help
us. I have a feeling that the ghost of Brad Elliott will be walking this place
for many years to come.”

 
          
The
President withdrew something from a pocket. “I’ve got to get going—I’m going to
spend a weekend of relaxation in
Las Vegas
before going back to
Washington
to continue the fight against Senator
Finegold and her attack dogs. But I have one last request for you first before
I go-”

           
The President of the
United States
shook Patrick’s hand, pressing something
into his palm. “Let me know soonest, okay? Be good, and congratulations on your
new baby. A boy, I believe, am I right?” He gave Wendy and Nancy Cheshire a
kiss, turned, and departed, followed by his national security advisors. The
roar of the engines on the Marine transport helicopters could be heard seconds
later.

 
          
Patrick
opened his hand and found a pair of silver stars nestled in his palm.

 
          
“I
need a director of operations here at HAWC, Patrick,” Terrill Samson said
proudly. “I could think of no one else suited for the job but you. You get
brigadier-general’s stars and a command of your own, and you get to work with
the hottest jets and the hottest weapons coming off the drawing boards. Dave
Luger
—Lieutenant Colonel
Dave Luger,
I should add—has agreed to sign on as a senior engineer and senior project
officer here. What do you say?”

 
          
Wendy
slipped her arm around Patrick’s waist and hugged him close. He looked into her
shining, proud eyes, but could not find an answer to the question he was
silently asking—only the continued promise of love and support for whatever he
chose to do.

 
          
Patrick’s
eyes then unconsciously searched out and found Jon Masters. The young scientist
and businessman-of-sorts was drinking his everpresent squeeze bottle of Pepsi.
He gave him a wink and a smile.

 
          
“Patrick?”
General Samson urged him. “What do you say? Be my second in command. In three
years, this will be your base, your command.”