Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (108 page)

Gryzlov looked at Stepashin and aimed a finger at him menacingly. “You have your orders, Stepashin—it's up to you and your men now,”
he said. “Find McLanahan, his aircraft, and his Tin Man commandos. Don't worry about taking them alive—just blast them to hell as soon as you find them.” He thought for a moment. “You have a force of bombers standing by for follow-on attacks, do you not, Stepashin?”

“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff replied. He quickly scanned a report in a folder in front of him. “I think we have adequate forces ready, sir. What is the target, sir?”

“Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island.”

Stepashin nodded. That order was not unexpected: The two Tupolev-160 bombers originally assigned to destroy Shemya obviously were shot down or crashed sometime between their successful strikes over Alaska and their planned attacks against Eareckson; satellite reconnaissance reported much air activity over Shemya, so the base was obviously still operational. As America's closest base to Russia's eastern military bases, Shemya had to be dealt with. “We will plan another air strike using MiG-23s from Anadyr.”

“Fighter-bombers? What about the rest of our heavy-bomber fleet, Stepashin?”

Nikolai Stepashin swallowed apprehensively. “The initial attack on North America was most successful, sir, but the casualty count was high,” he said. “The heavy-bomber units will need time to reorganize and reconstitute their forces.”

“How high?”

Stepashin hesitated again, then responded, “Forty percent, sir.”

“Forty percent!”

“Approximately forty percent of the force that launched on that mission was shot down, failed to return to base, or returned with damage or malfunctions significant enough to make them non-mission-ready,” Stepashin said. “Against the United States, I count that as a major victory.”

“You do, do you?” Gryzlov asked derisively. “It sounds like a tremendous loss to me!”

“It is a tremendous loss to our bomber force, sir,” Stepashin said. “But we scored an amazing victory and accomplished eighty to ninety percent of our stated objective—crippling America's strategic strike force. Initial reports estimate that we have eliminated seventy-five percent of its long-range bomber force and perhaps half of its strategic nuclear-missile force, plus all but eliminated America's capability to
launch its surviving land-based missiles and its ability to control its nuclear forces in the event of an all-out nuclear war. I consider it a great victory for you, sir.”

“I don't share your optimistic assessment, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said angrily. “Forty percent casualties
in one day
is far too much, and initial assessments of successes are always too optimistic. What nuclear forces remain?”

“Virtually all of our land-and sea-based nuclear ballistic force is operational,” Stepashin said. “You can be assured that—”

“I am assured of nothing when it comes to our missile fleet, General, and you know it,” Gryzlov said. “Why do you think I put so much trust in our bomber fleet? I was in your position two years ago, damn it. I visited the bases, interviewed the crews—not the suck-ass commanders, mind you, but the launch and maintenance crews themselves!—and saw for myself the deplorable condition of our nuclear forces. I wouldn't give our missile forces more than a sixty percent success rate—and that's a sixty percent chance of
even leaving their launch tubes
successfully, let alone hitting their assigned targets with any degree of accuracy!”

“That is simply not the case, sir….”

“
Nye kruti mnye yaytsa!
Don't twist my balls!” Gryzlov snapped. “I relied on the modernization of our bomber forces to save this country, Stepashin. The Americans disassembled virtually all of their bomber defenses—the attacks should have been cakewalks.” Stepashin had no response for Gryzlov's accusations, just silent denial. “How many planes are in reserve?”

“We committed no more than one-third of the fleet to the initial attack,” Stepashin replied, then quickly added, “at your order. That leaves us with a long-and extended-range bomber force of approximately one hundred and eighty aircraft. Two-thirds of these are based in the Far East Military District, safe from tactical air attack and positioned so they can mount successful raids on North America again if necessary.”

“It's necessary,” Gryzlov said. “You failed to destroy Eareckson Air Base in the initial assault, and now it is being used against us by McLanahan and his Phoenix bombers. Plan a strike mission on Eareckson. Completely destroy the airfield, intelligence-gathering, and surveillance facilities. Plan another mission to attack any military air-defense or airfield facilities on Attu Island as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gryzlov thought for a moment, then said, “Launch the attack on Shemya using the MiG-23 tactical bombers from Anadyr only. Mass those forces if you must, but I want Eareckson turned into
glass
as soon as possible. I want the long-range bombers readied for follow-on attacks over North America.”

“Targets, sir?”

“The targets that failed to be struck by our initial attack force: the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Barksdale Air Force Base, Fairchild Air Force Base, Nellis Air Force Base, Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base….” Gryzlov paused, gazed off into the distance distractedly, then added, “And Sacramento, California, as well.”

“Sacramento? You mean, Beale Air Force Base, sir?”

“That can be our
intended
target, of course,” Gryzlov said. “But I want the warhead to land in the city of Sacramento, not on the military base.”

“For God's sake, sir,
why?
The city itself is no longer a military target—all of the bases located near it were turned into civilian airports. There is a small rocket-motor research company there, and some computer-chip research firms, but they don't…” Then he remembered the general's previous remarks about his twisted motivations for this entire campaign—and he remembered that same look Gryzlov had now, and he knew why Gryzlov wanted to target a major American population center, before the president started to speak. “Not
McLanahan
again, sir…?”

“Another of our missiles will go off course, Stepashin, just like the one that ‘went off course' and hit Spokane, Washington,” Gryzlov said. “But that strike, the loss of his son and what remains of his already fractured family, will be the final event that will drive Patrick Shane McLanahan mad.”

“Sir, you cannot tell me that you would kill hundreds of thousands of civilians just to lash out at—?”

“It will be a missile malfunction, damn it!” Gryzlov retorted. “I will apologize, offer my condolences, perhaps even offer to resign from office in an attempt to atone for the miscalculation. The Duma will reject that offer, of course. But McLanahan will suffer far more than any other man or woman on the planet.” He glanced at Stepashin's incredulous expression and shook his head. “You think I'm crazy, don't you, General? McLanahan is perhaps even now preparing to strike our forces, and you still believe that I'm crazy for taking such a personal interest in this man?

“It is
you
who are mistaken, Stepashin,” Gryzlov went on. “McLanahan is like a crocodile, like a rattlesnake. He lies quietly, moves slowly, barely creates a ripple in the water or disturbs a leaf on the ground when he moves. But when he moves, it is with speed, power, and tenacity. His jaws clamp on, and he will not let go until he has killed his prey. And then he returns to his lair or his river, lies quietly, and watches and waits for the next opportunity to strike.”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, I suggest you take some time to get a little more perspective on this conflict,” Nikolai Stepashin said. He knew that it was dangerous to try to admonish or correct a man like Gryzlov, but in order to sustain any semblance of control or leadership in this conflict, he had to be sure of exactly where the president's head was right now. “I understand your campaign against McLanahan—I agree that the man has been at the root of so many major conflicts in past years that it is a wonder he's still alive, let alone not in prison or dangling at the end of a rope. But this war is far beyond one man now.
We are at war, Mr. President!
Let us focus on the American war machine, not on this one disgraced Air Force officer. You must meet with the general staff and hear what they have to—”

“I'm well aware of what's at stake and what must be done, Stepashin,” Gryzlov said. “Your job is to get the information and opinions from the general staff and present them to me, and for me to pass along my orders to the general staff. I have followed the staff's recommendations to the letter. I have invested the money, built up and modernized our forces, and garnered the support of the Duma—everything my military and political advisers told me I would have to do before this campaign could be successful. Do not question my motivations, Stepashin!”

“I…I do not question your goals, nor your commitment to them, sir,” Stepashin said. “But talking about going to war and destroying one city just to lash out against
one man
is not rational. Disrupting the American strategic nuclear triad and regaining parity with American nuclear forces—that is a goal I and the members of the general staff agree with completely. But it is…disheartening to hear you rattle on about this McLanahan as if he were some demigod that needs to be destroyed.”

Gryzlov looked as if he were about to explode in a fit of rage…but instead he lit another cigarette, took a deep drag, stubbed it out, and nodded through the haze of blue smoke. “Do not worry, Stepashin,” he
said. “The battle in which Russia is engaged is real. The battle I fight on Russia's behalf with McLanahan will not interfere with that. Now give the order to strike Eareckson Air Base on Shemya Island, and have the plan ready for my approval as soon as possible.”

 

T
hat's the order, Muck,” Dave Luger said. “I just got the hard copy.” There was no response. Luger waited a few more moments, heard nothing, then asked, “You copy, Patrick?”

“Loud and clear,” Patrick McLanahan responded via his subcutaneous satellite transceiver.

“It sucks, but all the players will still be in position, and we can move fast from Eareckson when we get the go-ahead,” Luger said. “Should I give the word?”

There was another long period of silence. Luger was about to ask the question again, but Patrick finally responded, “No. Everyone continues as planned.”

“Patrick…”

“No arguments this time,” Patrick interjected. “The brass signed off on the operation—and damn it, we're going to complete it. Unless Gryzlov is confirmed dead or in custody by American officials, I'm not trusting him to make peace with the United States.”

“Muck, they may have signed off on the plan originally, but they're changing it now,” David argued. “We have a decent alternative: The ground units move forward, and the air units get a chance to refuel and rearm at Eareckson.”

“It's
not
a good alternative, Texas. The president is grasping at any options that would mean an end to hostilities. He still believes that Gryzlov was desperate when he attacked the United States, and that if everyone stops right now, we can have peace. Gryzlov doesn't
want
peace—he wants to destroy the U.S. military, plain and simple. He obviously suspects we're coming after him, and he's telling the president anything he can think of to get us to stop.”

“I hear you, Patrick, but we have no choice,” Luger said. “You can't send in a force this size and with this large an objective without an okay from the White House, and we don't have it now.”

“I sure as hell can….”

“This is different, Patrick,” Luger argued. “Attacking Engels,
Zhukovsky, Belgorod—those were all preemptive strikes designed to defend our own forces or to prevent an imminent attack from taking place.”

“So is this operation, Dave.”

“Ultimately yes, but the first step is definitely an invasion, not a preemptive strike,” Luger said. “There's no defensive aspect to the operation—we take the offensive all the way. I want full authority to do this. We had it; now we don't. We have no choice but to hold until we get the word to go.”

Again Patrick hesitated. Luger fully expected Patrick to give him an order to continue the current mission, and he was ready to obey the order. But to his surprise, Patrick said, “Very well. Make room for the Air Battle Force and the Marines to refuel and rearm at Eareckson. Let's plan on getting a second and third ground contingent on their way as well.”

“Roger that, Muck. I don't like it any more than you do, my friend, but I know we're making the right decision.”

“We'll see,” Patrick said simply. “McLanahan out.”

Several hours later

E
areckson Approach, Bobcat One-one flight of two, passing twelve thousand for eight thousand,” radioed Lieutenant Colonel Summer “Shade” O'Dea, the aircraft commander aboard Patrick McLanahan's EB-52 Megafortress bomber. “Check.”

“Two,” responded Colonel Nancy Cheshire, the aircraft commander aboard the second aircraft in the flight, an AL-52 Dragon airborne-laser. The AL-52 Dragon was a modified B-52H bomber with a three-megawatt plasma-pumped electronic laser installed inside its fuselage, which could project a focused beam of laser energy powerful enough to destroy a ballistic missile or satellite at a range of three hundred miles, an aircraft at one hundred miles, or ground targets as large as an armored vehicle at fifty miles. Although the fleet of Dragons had grown to three in less than two years, the weapon system was still considered experimental—a fact that never stopped Patrick McLanahan.