Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (63 page)

 
          
Yes,
the operation was indeed going quite well. Kazakov could easily envision the
pumping and transfer station right here. The terrain climbed rather steeply
just west of here on its way into the
Lake
Ohrid
area, and a pumping station was necessary'
to get it up and over. Knock a few of these rotting flooded-out buildings down,
use the rubble to raise and grade the elevation, and it would work out
perfectly. What did these peasants need with a school here? Resen was only fifteen
miles away—they had plenty of schools there they could attend.

 
          
With
luck, he was back on schedule and marching forward nicely to completion. No use
in letting a few Americans get in the way.

 
          
Coronado
,
California

The next evening

           
His son’s eyes lit up like on
Christmas morning as Patrick pulled the suit from its hanging bag. The overhead
lights made the stars on the shoulders and the wings on the left breast pocket
sparkle. “Woo-oo,” Brad said. “You got a nice suit there. Daddy.”

 
          
“Thanks,
big guy,” Patrick said.

 
          
He
pointed at the command navigator wings, a pair of Air Force silver eagle’s
wings with the rampart crest in the center shield and a wreathed star on top.
“You going fly-ning?” Bradley asked.

 
          
“They’re
going to fly me to
Washington
.”

 
          
“You
going to meetings? You going to give a bree-fling?” Bradley didn't wait for the
answer, having decided that when Daddy brought the blue suit instead of the
green, that it was going to be meetings and briefings. He grabbed one of
Patrick’s Corfram shoes and pretended it was an airplane, zooming it up and
down the uniform and across the Rollaboard suitcase Patrick was packing. “Time
to give a bree-tling again!”

 
          
“What
are you going to do while I'm in
Washington
?” Patrick asked. “What arc your standing
orders while I’m gone?”

 
          
‘Take
care of Mommy, do as Mommy says, be a good boy, and ... and ..”

 
          
“One
more. And think—”

 
          
“And
think about Daddy!” Bradley said triumphantly.

 
          
“Very
good, big guy,” Patrick said. “High five.” Patrick held up a hand, and Bradley
slapped it.

 
          
The
little boy dropped the shoe he had been playing with onto his father’s left
foot and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s leg. “I love you, Daddy,” he said,
except it sounded more like, “I wuv you. Daddy.”

 
          
Patrick
picked up his son and hugged him tightly—he knew exactly what he had said. “And
Daddy loves you, son,” he replied.

 
          
“You
do good in Wash-ton,” Bradley said, punctuating his suggestion with an upraised
index finger.

           
Patrick tried to sound upbeat. He
smiled and said, “I’ll do good, big guy.”

 
          
Bradley
wriggled out of his dad’s arms, picked up the shoe, then rubbed his eye with
his free hand and gave the shoe to Patrick. “I’m
really
tired,” he said,
leading the way to his bedroom. “Maybe it’s time for bed.”

 
          
“Good
idea, tiger.” Patrick followed his son into his bedroom and watched as his son
lowered his pull-up diapers so he could check to see if they were wet, climbed
up on the stool next to the sink for a drink of water, then carried his stool
over to the bed so he could climb in. Patrick tried to put him under the covers
without his tattered old blanket, but his son automatically curled up atop the
covers with his blanket underneath him and his butt in the air.

 
          
He
pushed away from the bed long enough to give his father a kiss good-night, then
plopped back down. “You do good tomorrow. Daddy,” Bradley said. “And turn out
the light, please.”

 
          
“Good
night, big guy.” Bradley peeked at his father over the safety rail to his bed,
then smiled and giggled as his father turned back and gave his son a thumbs-up
just before he shut off the lights.

 
          
Do
good tomorrow, Daddy, he said. Yeah, right, Patrick thought.

 
          
Patrick
joined Wendy in the living room of their high-rise condo overlooking the city
of
San
Diego
.
Wendy Tork McLanahan had dimmed the lights so that the only illumination in the
room was from the city lights filtering through a thin marine layer that had
crept over
San Diego
Bay
. She had poured two glasses of Silver Oak
Cabernet Sauvignon and had loosened her wavy brunette hair and let it cascade
over one of his Sacramento Kings basketball team jerseys—Patrick noticed with a
grin that the jersey and a smile was all she wore. He went to her, handed her a
glass, and sat beside her. Their glasses touched, and then their lips.

 
          
“Bradley
blows me away with how much he seems to know and realize,” Patrick said. “I
think he’s psychic sometimes.”

 
          
“He’s
our son—what did you expect?” Wendy said with a warm smile. She had been a
civilian electronic warfare engineer when she'd met Patrick McLanahan at
Dreamland, and since that day their lives had been tightly intertwined—with
each other, and with the top-secret research facility in the
Nevada
desert. If predicted that Bradley would
someday be the next Edison or Bill Gates, most folks who knew Bradley’s parents
would not disagree. '"The little monster actually sent an e-mail to your
mother the other day.”

 
          
“He
what?”

           
“He sent an e-mail,” Wendy said. “No
kidding. I know he’s watched me send messages and repons to Jon on the computer
a thousand times, but I thought he was only waiting until he could play
‘Freddie Fish' or ‘Pajama Sam’ or some other game. He absorbed all he needed to
know and sent your mother a page of gibberish—with a ‘Classified’ cover page on
it.” “That’s my boy,” Patrick said proudly. He took a sip of wine and tried to
relax.

 
          
“Did
you talk with Dr. Canfield today?” she asked.

           
“Yes—twice,” Patrick said. Colonel
Bruce Canfield was the Director of Aviation Neuropsychology at Brooks Air Force
Base near
San
Antonio
,
Texas
, the center in charge of evaluating David
Luger following his incident at Dreamland. “David is still undergoing tests,
but he thinks it’s a case of something called delayed adjustment disorder.
David’s memory of past incidents while in the Soviet Union—probably first
activated by the Ukrainian crews we’ve been working with, then cued up again by
Samson telling him he might be unbalanced and needing psychological
help—activated a stress defense mechanism in his mind. He was able to shut off
all external sensory inputs to free him from physical, emotional, and
psychological damage.” /‘My God, it sounds horrible. Does he think he’ll be all
right*?” “Too early to say,” Patrick said. “Adjustment disorder is usually
treated by medication at first, which disqualifies Dave from flying and
laboratory work. But he also said that adjustment disorders are one of the few
conditions that don’t automatically keep a person from resuming his duties once
the treatment has concluded, and that includes flying. It’s a relatively common
condition, especially among the military, and Canfield says counseling and
treatment are usually very successful. Patients have an excellent chance of
recovery.”

           
“That's good news." Wendy kept
silent for a few long moments, then leaned back against him and wrapped his arm
around her body. “I did some checking—there’s room on that flight for me and
Brad," Wendy said.

 
          
“I
just put him to bed, sweetheart."

 
          
“Bradley
would be oveijoyed to fly along with you no matter what time it was/’ Wendy
reminded him. “The Sky Masters apartment in
Crystal
City
is available, too. I’m ready to go. What do
you say?"

 
          
“Sweetheart,
this thing could either be over in a day, or it’ll have just begun, in which
case I'll be right back home," Patrick said. “There’s no use dragging you
away from work and Brad away from preschool to spend two entire days on a
plane. Let me meet with the Area Defense Counsel, do the preliminaries, and
find out where I stand."

 
          
“Jon
called again and offered his entire legal staff to help you,” Wendy added. “I’m
sure the chief Area Defense Counsel of the Air Force is good, but Jon can have
a dozen of the best litigators and legal researchers at your side with one
phone call. Why not at least talk to them?"

 
          
Patrick
shook his head. “You know I’m not allowed to talk with contractors about Air
Force matters outside of their contracts, or accept any gifts or favors,” he
said. “Staying in the Sky Masters condo, even if you accompanied me there,
would look pretty suspicious. Our relationship with Jon and Sky Masters is too
cozy already, without him sending in his legal sharks to help me work over the
Air Force.”

 
          
“That
is not what would happen, and that’s not what Jon’s offering.”

 
          
“I
know, I know. But still... I don’t know, Wendy. Something’s happening here.
Things are changing.”

 
          
“What
do you mean, Patrick?”

 
          
He
searched his feelings for several long moments, then took another sip of wine
and shrugged. “Wendy, I did what I always do—I’m faced with a problem, a
crisis, and I did something about it the best way I knew how with the resources
I had. Ten years ago, that was okay. Today, I’m being court-martialed for it.
Things have changed. I have a feeling that either I need to change with it, or
I’ll... cease to exist.” He put on his far-away look, his ‘thousand-yard
stare," as if silently querying the faces of his dead friends for help in
finding answers. “I’m not sure if I want to fight the court-martial and retire,
or fight it and win, or fight it and go to prison."

 
          
Wendy
looked truly surprised. “Why in hell not?"

 
          
“Because
it feels to me like there’s an alternative life out there, a path opening up
for me, and I’ll miss it if I do what everyone expects and fight it. If I allow
whatever happens to happen. I think I’ll be happier."

 
          
“This
doesn’t sound like the Patrick McLanahan I know."

 
          
“It
doesn’t sound like him to me either," Patrick said honestly. “I know I
have friends, and I think I have friends I don’t know, enough to take on even
the Pentagon. But if I can’t see the path I'm meant to take, I don’t think
starting a brush fire will help me find it." He held Wendy tighter "l
know I'm supposed to be talking to you about what I’ll say once I get to
Washington, that we should discuss and decide this as a family. I also know
that I’m supposed to have a plan, an idea of what I want out of my own career
and my own life. But truthfully, I have no idea what I’ll do. All I’m sure
about is that I don’t want to march into the Pentagon with a bunch of civilian
lawyers and try to engage the brass in combat. I'm not afraid of losing—I’m
afraid of creating so much smoke and confusion that I won’t see the path I
want." Wendy’s body appeared tense, and the fingers stroking his thighs
seemed stiff and aimless. “What is it, sweetie?"

 
          
“I
have a feeling you’re... tired, that’s all,” Wendy said. “You’re tired of the
bureaucracy, tired of the fighting, tired of jeopardizing your life over and
over again in secret. I wish you could rest, but I know you’re not ready to
rest. All I see is the good you’ve done and the contribution to national
security you could make, a contribution that doesn’t include having your
friends turn on you." She turned to face him. ‘Terrill offered you a
chance to retire, an honorable discharge with your current rank and time in
service, and have your record expunged I know he gave you a deadline, but I
think with your record of achievements and service to the country, that the
offer will stand a while longer. I think you should take it."