Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (34 page)

 
          
“Unfortunately,
I can’t go into details, ma’am,” Briggs replied. “I’ll reveal as much as I can
to give as much planning data to your guys, but you’ll have to follow my lead
on a lot of it. Anyway, CLA wants this agent out immediately. I fly out
immediately. I’m going to pick up some gear at a friend of ours place in
Arkansas
, and then deploy with my team to
Turkey
to stage out of there.”

           
“Well, good luck,” Samson said. “But
I'm still confused. What’s our involvement?”

 
          
“Hal
was tasked to perform a hostile exfiltration deep in Russian airspace,” Patrick
explained. “I recommended that we provide air cover for his team,”

 
          
"Air
cover?"
Samson asked. “What do you mean, ‘air cover'?”

           
“Here’s the target area,” Patrick
replied, motioning to the computerized map. “In about forty-two hours, Hal's
team will land somewhere near Zhukovsky, here, to attempt to extract the CIA
operative. Hal expects heavy resistance—apparently they've been looking for the
agent for about twelve hours already, and the search is intensifying. I
suggested stealth airborne cover for the infiltration and exfiltration.”

 
          
“You
mean, send Vampires into
Russia
to cover a CIA rescue operation?” Samson
asked incredulously. “C’mon, Patrick, you’ve got to be joking! We aren’t in a
position to provide any sort of air cover!”

 
          
“I
disagree, sir,” Patrick said. He punched up the operational status readout for
the 111th Bomb Squadron and displayed it on the screen. “Out of six operational
EB- 1C Vampire bombers,” he summarized, as the readout popped up on the large
electronic briefing board, “two arc available right now, one is airborne and
can be ready to go a few hours after the first two are loaded, one is in
post-maintenance and can be ready if necessary in about eight hours, and one is
undergoing major modifications and is unavailable ”

 
          
Samson
checked the data block for this set of information— and saw that Patrick had
had this data pulled a few hours earlier. So this wasn’t exactly the no-notice
action meeting it looked like: McLanahan. most likely Luger, and maybe even
Briggs had already gotten word about this operation and hadn't told him about
it.

 
          
“But
the One-Eleventh isn’t operational yet,” Samson argued, deciding to hold off
confronting McLanahan with his thoughts for now. “We're still deep into the
demonstration-evaluation stage. They won’t be operational for at least another
year.”

 
          
Patrick
called up the roster of all the flight crews qualified to fly the Vampire
strategic flying battleship. “We’ve got the crews available, sir.” Patrick went
on hurriedly. “I’ll take the lead plane, Major Cheshire can fly as my aircraft
commander.” Major Nancy Cheshire was HAWC’s chief flight test pilot. If Terrill
Samson knew her better, he would be far more afraid of
her
transforming
into an ideological clone of Brad Elliott than Patrick McLanahan or anyone else
at HAWC. “Colonel Furness and Colonel Luger can fly as the backup crew,
followed by Dewey and Deverill. They’re the most advanced of the One-Eleventh’s
initial cadre. Then—”

 
          
“Pardon
me, sir,” Rebecca interjected, her eyes narrow ing in exasperation, “but you
aren't in our squadron.”

 
          
“This
will be an important mission for all of us. Major Cheshire and I have the most
experience—”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir,” Rebecca said, more insistently this time, “but with all due
respect—you got us into this, and you have to let us finish it.”

 
          
“What
the hell are you talking about, Rebecca?”

 
          
“Sir,
you created this unit specifically for missions like this,” Rebecca said, “You
gave us the tools, you trained us, and you prepared us. Now you’ve got to let
us do our job.” “This unit has been together for less than a year,” McLanahan
said. “It’s not an operational unit, not by a long shot. Those planes still
belong to us. If there’s a mission to do—”

           
“Everyone,
stop!”
Samson cut
in hotly, “Listen to me, Patrick. We will never be approved for a mission like
this. We
barely
got approval to form the One-Eleventh, and that was just
a few months ago. We may have two birds ready to fly, but that’s ready to fly
test and evaluation missions on the ranges, not fly into combat—and sure as
hell not over
Russia
!”

 
          
“Actually,
sir—I went ahead and got approval,” Patrick said.

 
          
“Say
again?”
Samson boomed, his eyes blazing in fury. “That was my call, sir,”
Briggs said. “Patrick ran the idea down to me, I called the DCI, Director
Morgan; he happened to be meeting with Secretary of Defense Goff in the White
House, he pitched the idea to him. spoke with Patrick for a while—”

           
“You spoke with the Secretary of
Defense?” Samson asked. Left unsaid was “Without notifying me first?”

 
          
But
Patrick knew what Samson was angry about. “I called you as soon as I was put
through to the Secretary, sir,” Patrick said. “He gave a provisional ‘go-ahead'
a few moments later, pending clearance from the President. He should be talking
to the President right about now. It happened pretty fast.” Patrick handed him
a printout with a signed authorization from the SecDef. Samson stared in
disbelief at his deputy commander, his lips taut, but said nothing else. “I’ve
already built the generation schedule, put the crews on crew rest—except
myself, of course—-and I'll have my first status briefing in—”

 
          
“Excuse
me, sir.” Long interjected again, “but that's
my
job. I'd appreciate it
if you'd step aside and let me do it.”

 
          
“Major,
I appreciate your enthusiasm, and this is not a criticism of you or your unit’s
skill or readiness,” Patrick said, typing more instructions into the computer
as he spoke, “but I'm in charge of this mission, and I’ll take care of the
planning this time around. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand by and help me get
the maintenance and combat support staffs briefed and organized, and then
we'll—”

 
          
“Hold
it right there, Patrick,” General Samson interjected. “I’ve heard enough.
Patrick, this time you’re wrong, and the major is correct, on all counts.
You’ve done a good job training the One-Eleventh. They’ve done well, better
than anyone’s expected, given their recent history and reputation. Colonel
Furness is also correct in pointing out that you are
not
a member of
that squadron. And another thing: technically, the Vampires belong to the
taxpayers, not to me, not to you. They are not
your
personal property.”

 
          
“I'm
well aware of that, sir,” McLanahan said. “I wasn’t implying—”

           
“Frankly, General, I expected a
little more support for one of the teams you yourself created,” Samson said. “I
know you want to get in on the action, but try not to slam one of your own to
do it. I only need one word from you, Patrick: is the One- Eleventh ready to
fight?”

 
          
Patrick
looked at Furness and Long, who glared back at him, and then at the other representatives
of the 111th Bombardment Wing “Aces High.” Patrick found it was one of the
hardest questions he’d ever had to answer: if he said “no,” he’d be a liar, and
if he said “yes,” he’d be effectively cutting himself out of the unit and the
mission he’d worked so hard to build. But there really wasn’t any conflict over
the question at all—and he knew it:

 
          
“The
answer is, yes, sir, they are,” Patrick replied resolutely. ‘They’ve flown
every training sortie and every research mission we’ve asked them to fly;
they've prepared well. The initial cadre is some of the best flyers I’ve ever
worked with—they’re aggressive, knowledgeable, and dedicated. They’re ready to
go kick some butt.” He turned to Rebecca. “My apologies. I was out of line. Of
course, it’s your squadron.” His eyes were no longer ordering or demanding, but
not quite pleading, either—not yet. “But I do know more about the Vampires than
anyone else on this base, and I’ve worked with ISA before many times. Put me on
the inflight backup bird, along with Nancy Cheshire. She’s the most experienced
aircraft commander.”

 
          
“We
can use your expertise in the virtual cockpit, sir,” Long said. It was too
obvious that Long enjoyed watching McLanahan get a good hand-slapping by Samson
and was only too anxious to give him one last jab in the ribs.

 
          
“No,
I think having him in the backup bird is a good idea,” Samson inteijected. “But
I’m going to exercise a little commander’s prerogative and order Colonel
Furness to fly as Patrick’s AC. Nancy Cheshire and Dave Luger will command the
virtual cockpit for the mission.” To Long, he said, “Major, you’re taking over
planning for this operation. I’d like a mass briefing in twenty-four hours.
According to the warning order, your planes are supposed to be over the patrol
area in about forty hours.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. We’ll be ready.”

 
          
“Colonel
Briggs, I imagine you’ll be on your way too,” Samson said with a smile.
“Stopping off for some wonder toys, I suppose?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Briggs said happily. “I can think of one or two things we might need for
a mission like this.”

 
          
“I’m
sure you can,” Samson said. He extended his big hand, and Briggs shook it
warmly. “Good luck, good hunting. Tell me all about it when you get back.”

 
          
“You
got it. General.”

 
          
General
Samson dismissed his staff and the One-Eleventh squadron officers, but not
before giving Patrick a warning glare, For the first time since they had been
working together, Patrick McLanahan had come very, very close to stepping over
the line. He had a much better reputation than that. Hopefully, it did not
portend a sign of bad things to come. He made a mental note to sit down with
Patrick after this was over with and have a talk—not a “heart-to-heart,” but a
real “get the shit out of your ears” talk.

 
          
Most
of the senior officers and NCOs headed right for the combat support staff
mission planning room, which held a series of computers that would assist them
in mission planning. As usual, Patrick headed for the seat behind the master
terminal—but he realized he had virtually pushed John Long out of the way.
Patrick waited a few heartbeats to see if Long would let “rank have its
privileges,” but no chance of that. This was Long’s chance to show what he and
the One-Eleventh Strategic Squadron could do, and he was anxious to go. “Sorry
about that, John,” Patrick said. He yielded the seat to the One-Eleventh’s
operations officer.

 
          
“No
problem, sir,” Long said, not bothering to disguise a smirk. Following
McLanahan’s lead, the HAWC staff officers gave up their seats to the
One-Eleventh’s staff members. Long handed him a printout. “Here are the things
I’ll need you to work up for us, sir. We’ll have a ‘how d’ya do’ brief in two
hours. Let me know if you need any help with that.”

 
          
“I
can work better at the master console. Major,” Patrick said. But Long had
already turned back and logged into the master terminal, ready to start
building his flight plan, scheduling refueling and forward basing support, and
downloading intelligence data. His flight commanders and support staff logged
on as well, and in moments they were all busy entering data and running mission
planning checklists.

 
          
If
the little prick asks me to get coffee for him, Patrick thought as he left to
head back to his office, I’m going to have to deck him.

 
          
The
White House President’s Study

that same time

           
The one good thing about this
president. Secretary of Defense Robert Goff remarked to himself, is that he was
totally accessible—because he never went anywhere. He was always working in the
office, usually in the study adjacent to the Oval Office, except if conducting
a small meeting with his staff or greeting visitors. Because he had a very
small political marine behind him, he rarely did public appearances or Party
fund-raisers. If he had any free moments, they were spent with his wife and
children upstairs in the residence. Robert knew enough not to disturb the
President when he was meditating, usually at
ten a.m.
and
three p.m.
, but otherwise President Thom was working
the phones or on his computer, being the chief executive.