Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (35 page)

 
          
Goff
sometimes worried about his old friend. He didn’t play golf, didn't jog, didn’t
sail, rarely visited
Camp
David
, didn’t do
many of the things other chief executives were noted for doing to relax. His
only relief from life in
Washington
was the occasional weekend visit to his parents’ home in
Vermont
or his wife’s mother’s home in
New Hampshire
to see the grandkids. Other presidents were
criticized for being “trapped” in the White House by their duties and
responsibilities, but Thom seemed to get his drive and energy from the deluge
of meetings, reports, briefings, and decisions he had to deal with every day.

 
          
Goff
knew he was intruding on the President’s meditation time, but he entered the
study anyway and quietly took a seat on his favorite chair in a comer of the
room, watching his friend, the most powerful man on planet Earth, in silence.
The President sat quietly, hands folded serenely in his lap, his eyes closed,
his breathing shallow and even. Goff had gone through the meditation lessons
years ago, given by Thomas’s wife, and he had tried to do it twice a day, but
that practice had stopped long ago. If he tried very hard, he could remember
his mantra. He told Thomas he still kept up with his meditation, and Thomas
just smiled and nodded.

 
          
Well,
Goff thought, maybe Thomas didn’t need to take up golf or jogging or sailing.
The President was in extraordinary physical condition, even though as far as
Goff knew, he didn’t exercise regularly. Seated there in a white shirt, his tie
loosened and his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, he looked fit and trim.
Bob had once asked Thom about his lack of exercise, i and he had responded by
dropping down on the floor in his business suit and doing a handstand, holding
his legs out com-1 pletely horizontal with the floor for fifteen full
seconds—first ! with two hands, then one hand, then
three fingers.
It
was a most impressive display of strength and balance. Thom claimed that it was
part of the Vedic sciences, a harmony of spirit, mind, and body that allowed
his body to do anything his mind commanded. He said the possibilities were
endless—that was only a small sample of what he could do.

 
          
Of
course, as a former Special Forces commando, Thom had already done enough
exercise to last twenty men a life- i time—to him, supporting his body with one
finger might be child's play. Goff had a hard time believing any of that New Age
yogi crap.

           
“You ever regret we did this. Bob?”
he heard Thom ask. He hadn't heard or even noticed the President conclude his
meditation.

           
“Every day,” Goff responded. The
President smiled. “You?”

           
“No,” the President replied gently,
and Goff knew that was the truth. The relaxed smile dimmed, replaced by a grim,
nononsense visage. “Something's happened? My first sensitive international
intelligence crisis?”

 
          
Goff
had no idea how the President could have guessed this—he had just gotten wind
of it himself. “Yes, sir,” Goff said. “Doug Morgan and the Vice President are
on their way. It has to do with Project Siren.” Goff knew he never had to
back-brief the President on anything they had talked about within the past six
to nine months—Thom had a remarkable ability to recall the details of any
discussion or briefing, no matter how informal or routine. He had been briefed
on roughly three dozen ongoing intelligence operations inside
Russia
alone, but he could recall major details
about each and every one of them. “She was flushed out of hiding, and the
network set up to retrieve her broke down. CIA wants to pull her out
immediately. They believe she might have information relating to the recent
attack in
Albania
.”

           
“Deep inside
Russia
, near
Moscow
—Zhukovsky, I believe?”

           
Goff nodded. “Has to be by air,
then. They have someone in mind? Delta Force? Air Force Special Ops?”

           
“Intelligence Support Agency.”

           
“Which cell?” He then held up a
hand. “Madcap Magician, launching out of
Turkey
.”

 
          
“The
very one, sir.”

           
‘They need air support?”

           
Goff was flabbergasted—it was as if
the President had already planned this operation in his head, considered all
the possible hazards, and had come up with a full set of contingency plans.
“They’re requesting specialized stealth air cover.”

           
“That deep into the heart of
Russia
, they want counterair, SEAD. antitank,
antipersonnel, the works—they want someone from HAWC, right?”

           
“Yes, sir.”

           
“Sit down with Doug, Lester, and
General Venti, give them the go-ahead,” the President said. “Advise me when the
operation is under way.”

 
          
“Don’t
you want to discuss this with the rest of the Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs, with
the congressional leadership?”

           
“Bob, unless the Constitution’s been
rescinded in the past twenty minutes, I am the commander-in-chief,” the
President said. “You are my secretary of defense and national security advisor,
and the Vice President is my chief of staff. I’m familiar with Project Siren,
and I think I have an idea about the difficulties of doing a covert extraction
so far inside enemy territory. I am therefore authorizing you to plan the
mission with the help of your intelligence and military advisors and get it
under way immediately.”

 
          
“But...
but what about the possibility of something going wrong?” Goff asked. “Are you
going to just authorize such a dangerous mission without considering all the
dangers and ramifications first?”

 
          
“If
we had the time, I would. But I presume we don’t have the time to waste. ISA
and HAWC are good choices. Get them moving.”

           
Goff, still stunned, could do
nothing else but nod. The ident nodded and got back to work on his computer. Go
headed for the door; then he stopped and said, “This could a very big disaster,
Mr. President. Are you sure you don’t want to think about it some more?”

           
Without looking up from his work,
the President asked, “You haven't been keeping up with your meditation, have
you, Bob?”

 
          
Goff
shook his head and chuckled. It was Thom's ass on the line, he knew it and he
didn’t seem too perturbed by it. “I’ll get the mission moving immediately,
sir.”

Near Zhukovsky
Air Base
,
Russian Federation

Two evenings later

 
          
“Nasrat
f karmun!"
one of the hoboes exclaimed as the tranger emerged from the
shadows. “Well, well, what do we lave here?”

 
          
The
five hoboes under the bridge slowly rose to their feet as he woman in the
jogging suit approached their tiny campfire. Dutside, the freezing rain had
started again, driven by gradu- illy increasing winds; it would begin snowing
soon, and this ;ime they were in for measurable accumulations.

 
          
Even
in the dim light the hoboes could tell she was shivering uncontrollably. She
may have once looked pretty, but her features were now pale and haggard. Her
jogging suit, an expensive imported one, was filthy and encrusted with frozen
mud and leaves. “Who might you be,
sika?”

 
          
“
Pamageetye
...
pamageetye rtinye pazahalsta
. I... I need help, please,” the woman
stammered through chattering, blistered lips. “Please ... please help me.”

 
          
“A
pretty young thing like you?” the biggest hobo, obviously the leader of the
group, responded. “Of course, of course. Anything you want.” He stroked a
thick, scraggly beard and licked his lips. “But it’ll cost you. Don’t worry,
though. It’ll help you warm up.”

 
          
Linda
Mae Valentrovna Maslyukov brought her right hand up, the one holding the police
pistol. “Don’t move, asshole,” she said weakly. The hoboes tensed, staring at
the gun in total surprise. “All I want is a blanket and some food. We don’t want
any police attention.” Two days in the freezing cold, w ith no shelter and no
warm clothing, had finally taken its toll. She reasoned—probably correctly—that
she was better off trying to get help from these hoboes under the bridge than
risk being seen at the tavern. It was either die of hypothermia or risk being
caught. ‘ Just give me some food and I’ll—”

 
          
The
piece of driftwood came out of nowhere, landing squarely on the back of her
head. Already half-conscious from exposure. Maslyukov collapsed in a heap.

 
          
“You
huyisos!"
the big hobo shouted angrily at the hobo who had been
hiding in the shadows and had clubbed Linda from behind. “What did you knock
her out for? I’m not going to fuck an unconscious bitch!”

 
          
“Well,
then I will!” one of the other hoboes chimed in eagerly.

 
          
“
Uyobyva:!
Get the fuck out! I get first taste!" the big one said. “You get over to
the highway and flag down a cop. This has got to be the bitch the police have
been looking for. Maybe we'll get a reward for finding her. Take your time.” He
bent dow n, pocketed the pistol, then unzipped the woman's jogging suit jacket
and fondled her breasts. “And someone get me some water and some vodka. Let's
see if we can wake sleeping beauty up and have ourselves a party before the police
get here.”

 
          
“It's
her, all right,” the police officer said, holding the photograph up to the
face. Even though her face was white w'ith cold, streaked w ith frozen dirt,
blood, and mucus, and the hair tangled and twisted, she was recognizable. The
officer un, zipped the top of her jogging suit, checked her carotid for signs
of a pulse. “She’s still alive. Barely.” He then roughly fondled her breasts.
“Wow. Nice big American breasts.”

 
          
“Knock
it off,
pizdasos,"
the first officer’s partner said. “Is the only
way you can cop a feel with a woman is to find one half frozen to death?” He
shined his flashlight over her body, noting the tom pants pulled halfway down
her buttocks and the palm prints across her breasts. “Besides, you want any of
that after these
gavnos
pawed her? If she doesn't die of the cold or of
any diseases from these animals, she’ll die of shame once he finds out who
touched her.”

           
They were at the edge of the river,
several meters upstream rom the bridge abutment where the hoboes lived. They
had ound the woman facedown in three inches of snow. The first jfficer shined
his flashlight under the river overpass and saw i few faces. “Disgusting pigs.
How in hell could you give those inimals any money?”

 
          
“Shto
ty priyibalsa ku mn'e?
We’ve been working double shifts for two days trying
to find this
kurva
the second officer said. “If they hadn’t come forward,
we’d still be working to find her, and you know we're not going to get paid any
overtime. A few rubles is cheap goodwill for handing her over to us alive. If
they killed her. I’d make sure they all got their balls handed to them. Now
stop copping a feel and call it in. The faster you leave her tits alone and
have the MSB collect her, the faster we can go get a drink,” While the first
officer pulled out his portable radio to call in their discovery, the second
officer searched the woman, then covered her with his coat to keep her from
dying of exposure.

 
          
“Ambulance
and an Interior Ministry unit are on the way,” the first officer reported. “ETA
twenty minutes.”

 
          
“Christ,
she might be dead by then,” the second officer said. “We better take her to the
hospital at Zhukovsky.” The two police officers picked her up and had carried
her several dozen meters through the brush and rocky riverbank toward their car
parked just off the bridge, when they heard the heavy rotor sounds of an
approaching helicopter. “Well, they got here fast. We’ll stay put.”

 
          
“Sounds
like a heavy chopper—must be army,” the first officer said. The helicopter flew
out of sight, but they could hear it hover, then land nearby. It did not use
any lights for landing—a very remarkable feat, considering the poor weather. A
few minutes later, they heard a rustling of branches, but could see no one.
“Where in hell are they? What’s taking them so long?”

 
          
“I’ll
go and—” But just then, their flashlights spotted a figure dressed in what
looked like a bulky flight suit or battle- dress uniform, wearing what looked
like a flying helmet. “That looks like the pilot. Where’s his crew? Or is he by
himself?” He raised his voice and shouted, “Vi
zhdyotye kavoneebood?
Are
you waiting for someone? Get over here!"

 
          
Suddenly,
they heard a voice say directly behind them in terrible, electronically
synthesized Russian, “
Ya plokha gavciryoo parooskee
,
tovarisch.
I
don’t speak much Russian, comrade. Neither does my friend over there.” They
turned and saw a figure dressed in a dull-gray bodysuit wearing some sort of
space-age full-face helmet with bug-eyed electronic sensors.

 
          
"Who
in hell are you?"
the first police officer shouted in Russian.

 
          
As
if in reply, there was a flash of blue-white light, and bolts of lightning shot
out from small electrodes on the figure’s shoulders. The first police officer
screamed, stiffened as if he had touched a high-tension wire, and fell flat on
his face in the snow, twitching as if every nerve ending in his body was firing
uncontrollably.

 
          
“Yop
tvayu mat!"
The second police officer swung his body, flinging his
submachine gun hanging on its shoulder strap from behind his back around into
his hands, and he fired a three-round burst from his hip from a distance of no
more than fifteen feet. At that range, he couldn’t miss ... but to his
amazement, the stranger didn't go down, only staggered back a few steps. “
Ya
nee paneemayoo
...
?”

 
          
“Spakoyniy
nochyee
, dude,” the stranger said, and he hit the second officer with
another bolt of energy. Sparks of electricity leapt from the officer’s body to
the gun until the officer finally fell unconscious to the ground.

 
          
The
stranger quickly bent down to examine Linda Maslyukov. “It’s her, Chris,” he
told his partner via short-range datalink. He hefted the woman over his
shoulders in a fireman’s carry. “I’ll take her. You cover us. Make sure our
grimy friends behind us don’t try to get too brave.”

 
          
“Roger.
Follow me,” the second stranger responded, and he headed out back toward where
the helicopter had landed.

 
          
But
they had not gone too far when they heard the sound of several sirens
approaching fast. “Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into this
time, Ollie,” the strangely costumed figure carrying Maslyukov said in an
electronically synthesized voice. His helmet-mounted electronic displays showed
a two-dimensional depiction of the vehicles, including their speed, direction
of travel, and an electronic guess of the vehicle type, based on the strength
of the millimeter-wave radar return. “Aces, I’ve got a couple visitors at my
three o’clock
, three hundred and twenty yards, two
inbounds. One armored vehicle, maybe a BTR,”

 
          
“Copy,
Tin Man,” a voice belonging to Duane Deverill, mission commander of an EB-IC
Vampire bomber Hying nearby, responded. Seconds later, there was a tremendous
explosion, and the armored personnel carrier disappeared in a ball of fire.

 
          
“Good
shooting. Aces,” Briggs said. “C’mon, Sarge, let’s move.”

 
          
“For
Pete’s sake, sir,” the strange figure’s partner responded in his microphone
with an exasperated voice. The big commando, his face a death’s mask in black
and green camouflage makeup beneath his multifunction combat helmet, turned
toward his partner, his mouth curled in a sneer. The U.S. Marine Corps veteran
looked like some sort of monster beetle—along with the oddly shaped helmet with
large electronic “eyes,” the commando wore a battle-dress uniform composed of
thin ceramic armor plates, a web harness with several devices and pouches
attached to it, and a utility belt with as many computer modules and sensors
attached to it as weapons. “It’s
Stan,
not Ollie. Oliver Hardy would say
that to Stan Laurel. And it’s not
fine
mess, it’s
nice
mess.
‘Here is another
nice
mess you’ve gotten me into,
Stan.'
You keep
on mixing them up like that, sir, and I’ll have to waste you.”

 
          
U.S.
Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs, the man carrying Linda Mae Maslyukov,
shrugged his shoulders, which only accentuated his very unsoldierlike
appearance. While his partner. Marine Corps Master Sergeant Chris Wohl, looked
unusual in his insectlike exoskeleton, his commanding officer looked even
stranger. Hal Briggs wore a sleek, dark gray body suit resembling a scuba
diver’s wet suit, with only a thin backpack, bullet-shaped shoulder-mounted
devices, and a utility belt with several small modules attached. His helmet,
too, had large bug-eyed electronic sensors, but it was a full-face helmet that
completely sealed the outfit. He wore all-terrain boots with thick soles and
strange extensions on the backs of his calves.

 
          
“Stan.
Ollie, Sergeant Chris Wohl—they’re all just a bunch of old farts to me,” Briggs
quipped. He ignored Wohl’s dark scowl. Through his electronic visor, he could
see the exfiltration helicopter in the distance. “Follow me.’’ Staying close to
whatever cover he could find, but not really bothering to use proper cover
techniques, Hal Briggs dashed off in the direction indicated on his visor's
navigation display. Wohl followed closely behind, taking a bit more care to
keep himself concealed but not wanting to lag behind.

 
          
Air
Force Major John “Trash Man” Weston swore he could feel the heat from the
exploding Russian armored personnel carrier through the cockpit of his MV-22
Pave Hammer special operations transport, even though he was a couple miles
away from where the vehicle suddenly exploded, at night, in the dead of an
eastern European winter. “Check in, Tin Man,” Weston radioed. “Was that
explosion yours?”

 
          
“We’re
on our way. Hammer,” Briggs radioed back. ‘That was our guardian angel helping
out. Our ETA two minutes.” Weston and his six-man crew were part of a team
called “Madcap Magician,” a secret cell of the Intelligence Support Agency. The
ISA was composed of a series of such cells, unknown to each other, deployed all
over the world to assist the CIA in high-value rescues, high-risk attacks,
reconnaissance, intelligence-gathering, or other missions considered too “hot”
for field operatives and too politically sensitive for the military.