Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (178 page)

She paused for a moment, her features softening a bit, and Boomer knew the show was about to begin: “You'd better not be with that blond spiky-haired bitch, Tammy or Teresa or whatever the hell her name is. You're over at her place, aren't you, or you two have jetted off to Mexico or Hawaii, haven't you? You two just fucked and you're checking mail while she takes a shower, right?” Chloe set the videophone down on her desk, unbuttoned her blouse, and slipped her large, firm breasts out from under her brassiere. “Let me just remind you what you're missing here, Boomer.” She put a finger sensuously in her mouth, then circled her nipples with it. “Get your ass back here and stop screwing around with those skanky bottle-blond hos.” She smiled seductively, then hung up.

“Crazy bitch,” Boomer muttered as he continued to scroll through the messages, but resolved to look her up as soon as he got back. After previewing more messages he stopped and immediately entered the code to access the satellite Internet server. Another benefit of the new American space initiative, of which Armstrong Space Station was the hub, was the coming availability of almost universal Internet access via a constellation of over a hundred low-Earth-orbit satellites that provided global low-speed Internet access, plus ten geostationary satellites that provided high-speed broadband Internet access to most of the Northern Hemisphere.

“No IP address, no extensions, no open active server identification code—this has got to be a call from outer space,” came the reply from Jon Masters a few moments later after establishing a videophone connection to the designated secure address. Jon Masters was the vice president of a small high-tech research and development company called Sky Masters Inc. that designed and licensed many different
emerging aerospace technologies, from microsatellites to space boosters. Masters, a multidegree, multidoctorate scientist and engineer regarded as one of the world's most innovative aerospace designers and thinkers, had formed his company at the ripe old age of twenty-five, and he still looked and acted the part of the geeky, eccentric, and flippant child prodigy. “Thanks for returning my call, Boomer.”

“No problem, Jon.”

“How are things up there?”

“Fine. Good.”

“I know you can't talk about it on a satellite server, even if it is encrypted. Just wanted to be sure you're okay.”

“Thanks. I'm fine.”

There was a slight pause; then: “You sound a little down, my friend.”

“No.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “So. What do you think of my offer?”

“It's extremely generous, Jon,” Boomer said. “I'm not sure if I deserve it.”

“I wouldn't offer it if I didn't think you did.”

“And I get to work on whatever I want?”

“Well, we hope we can entice you to help out on other projects,” Masters said, “but I want you to do what you do best: think outside the box and come up with fresh, innovative, and kick-ass designs. I don't try to game or anticipate the aerospace market, Boomer—I try to
shape
it. That's what I want you to do. You won't answer to anyone else but me, and you get to pick your team, your protocols, your design approach, and your timelines—within reason, of course. You knock my socks off with your ideas, and I'll back you all the way.”

“And this estimated budget figure for my lab…?”

“Yes?”

“Is this for real, Jon?”

“That's just the
starting
point, Boomer—that's the
minimum,
” Masters chuckled. “You want that in writing, just say so, but I'm guaranteeing you that you'll have a generous budget to build the team to research and evaluate your designs.”

“Even so, it's not enough for the entire division. I'll need—”

“You don't understand, Boomer,” Masters interjected excitedly. “That money is just for
you
and your team, not split up between everyone in your division, existing projects, or specific company-mandated programs or technology.”

“You're kidding!”

“I'm serious as a heart attack, brother,” Masters said. “And it's not for stuff like company-wide expenses, compliance mandates, or security, but for your team- and project-specific costs. I believe in giving our top engineers the tools they need to do their job.”

“I can't believe it. I've never even heard of that kind of money being invested by a small company like this.”

“Believe it, Boomer,” Masters said. “We may be small, but we've got investors and a board of directors who think big and expect big things to happen.”

“Investors? A board of directors…?”

“We all answer to someone, Boomer,” Masters said. “I ran my company by myself with a handpicked board of directors, which was okay until the projects got smaller and the money got tight. There were a lot of investors out there who wanted to be part of what we were doing here, but no one wants to dump hundreds of millions of dollars into a one-man show. We're public, and I'm not president anymore, but everyone knows I'm the guy who makes the magic.”

“I don't know…”

“You don't worry about the board, Boomer. You report to me. Be advised, I'm going to make you work for every dime. I'm going to expect big things from you, and I'll be putting bugs in your ear about what I know or discover about government requests for proposals, but like I said, I don't want you waiting around for some weenie in the Pentagon to tell us what they might want—I want
us
to tell
them
what
they
want. So, what do you say? Are you in?”

“I'm thinking about it, Jon.”

“Okay. No problem. I know your commitments to the Air Force are up in eight months, correct?” Boomer guessed that Jon Masters
knew to the
day
when his educational commitments to the Air Force for pilot training were up. “I guarantee they'll offer you a regular commission before that, along with a big fat bonus. They might try to stop-loss you, claiming you're in a critical specialty, but we'll deal with that when and if we have to. I have enough contracts with the Air Force, and enough buddies in the Pentagon, to put a little pressure on them to respect your decisions. After all, you're not getting out to go work for the airlines or be a consultant or lobbyist—you'll be working for the company that builds
them
the next generation of hardware.”

“That sounds good.”

“You bet it does, Boomer,” Jon Masters said. “Don't worry about a thing. One more thing, buddy. I know I'm older than you, probably old enough to be your dad if I started real early, so I get to give you a little heads-up.”

“What's that, Jon?”

“I know trying to tell you to take it easy, be safe, and maybe don't fly so many missions is like trying to tell my golden retriever to stay out of the lake, but I wouldn't want to have the company's future vice president of R&D become a shooting star, so take it easy, okay?”

“Vice president?”

“Oh, did I say that out loud?” Masters deadpanned. “You weren't supposed to hear that. Forget I said that. Forget the board was considering it but didn't want me to reveal that. Gotta go before I tell you about the other thing the board was kicking around…oops, almost did it again. Later, Boomer.”

 

O
FFICE OF THE PRESIDENT, THE
K
REMLIN
, M
OSCOW
, R
USSIAN
F
EDERATION

A
SHORT TIME LATER

The room was loudly called to attention as Russian Federation president Leonid Zevitin quickly strode into the conference room, followed by his chief of staff Peter Orlev, the secretary of the security council, Anatoli Vlasov; the minister of foreign affairs, Alexandra Hedrov; and the chief of the Federal Security Bureau, Igor Truznyev. “Take seats,” Zevitin ordered, and the officers already in the room—General Kuzma Furzyenko, the chief of staff; General Nikolai Ostanko, chief of staff of the army; and General Andrei Darzov, the chief of staff of the air force—shuffled to their chairs. “So. I gave the command for our fighter to attack the unmanned American bomber if it fired a missile, and since we're meeting like this so quickly, I assume it did, and we did. What happened?”

“The American B-1 bomber successfully launched a missile from over the Caspian Sea that reportedly destroyed a Hezbollah squad preparing to launch a rocket from an apartment complex in southeast Tehran,” General Darzov replied. “The missile made a direct hit on the launch squad's location, killing the entire crew…” He paused, then added, “including our Special Forces adviser. The bomber then—”

“Hold on, General, hold on a sec,” Zevitin said impatiently, holding up a hand. “They launched a missile from
over
the Caspian Sea? You mean a cruise missile, and not a laser-guided bomb or TV-guided missile?” Many of those around the table narrowed their eyes, not because they disliked Zevitin's tone or question but because they were unaccustomed to someone with such a distinct Western accent at a classified meeting in the Kremlin.

Leonid Zevitin, one of Russia's youngest leaders since the fall of the czars, was born outside St. Petersburg but was educated and had spent most of his life in Europe and the United States, and so had
almost no Russian accent unless he wanted or needed one, such as when speaking before Russian citizens at a political rally. Frequently seen all over the world with starlets and royalty, Zevitin came from the world of international banking and finance, not from politics or the military. After decades of old, stodgy political bosses or bureaucratic henchmen as president, the election of Leonid Zevitin was seen by most Russians as a breath of fresh air.

But behind the secretive walls of the Kremlin, he was something altogether different than just expensive silk suits, impeccable hair, jet-setter style, and a million-dollar smile—he was the puppet master in the grand old Russian tradition, every bit as cold, calculating, and devoid of any warm personality traits as the worst of his predecessors. Because he had no political,
apparatchik,
military, or intelligence background, no one knew how Zevitin thought, what he desired, or who his allies or captains in government were—his henchmen could be anyone, anywhere. That kept most of the Kremlin off-guard, suspicious, tight-lipped, and at least overtly loyal.

“No, sir—the missile went faster than Mach four, which is the fastest speed our fighter's radar can track a target. I would describe it as a very high-speed guided rocket.”

“I assume, then, that you compared the time of launch and the time of impact and came up with a number?”

“Yes, sir.” His eyes looked pained—no one could tell whether it was because the general was afraid of telling the president the bad news, or because he was being lectured to by this foreign-sounding young playboy.

“But you don't believe the number you computed,” Zevitin said for the air force chief of staff. “Obviously this weapon was something we did not expect. What was the speed, General?”

“Average speed, Mach five point seven.”

“Almost
six times the speed of sound
?” That news rocked every member of the security staff back in their chairs. “And that was the
average
speed, which means the
top
speed was Mach…ten?
The Americans have an attack missile that can fly at Mach ten?
Why didn't we know of this?”

“We know now, sir,” General Furzyenko said. “The Americans made the mistake of using their new toy with one of our fighters on his wingtip.”

“Obviously they were not concerned enough about our fighter to cancel their patrol or their attack,” Zevitin offered.

“It was what the Americans call an ‘operational test,' sir,” air force chief of staff General Andrei Darzov said. A short, battle-worn air force bomber pilot, Darzov preferred his head shaved bald because he knew how it intimidated a lot of people, especially politicians and bureaucrats. He had visible burn scars on the left side of his neck and on his left hand, and the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand were missing, all a result of injuries sustained in the bombing of Engels Air Base, Russia's main bomber base, several years earlier, when he served as Forces of Long-Range Aviation division commander.

Darzov had wanted nothing short of bloody payback for the utter devastation wreaked on his headquarters during the sneak attack on Engels, and swore revenge on the American air commander who had planned and executed it…Lieutenant General Patrick McLanahan.

Under former military chief of staff turned president Anatoliy Gryzlov, who wanted revenge on the United States as badly as Darzov, he soon got his opportunity. Andrei Darzov was the architect of the plan just a year later to modify Russia's long-range Tu-95 Bear, Tu-26 Backfire, and Tu-160 Blackjack bombers with aerial refueling probes to allow them the range to attack the United States. It was an audacious, ambitious plan that succeeded in destroying most of the United States' long-range bombers and the control centers for over half of their land-based intercontinental ballistic nuclear-tipped missiles. The devastating assault killed over thirty thousand people and injured or sickened thousands more, and soon became known as the “American Holocaust.”

But Darzov hadn't heard the last of his archenemy, Patrick McLanahan. When McLanahan's counterattack destroyed almost an equivalent number of Russia's most powerful silo-based and mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles, someone had to take the
blame—other than the then-president of Russia, General Gryzlov, who had been killed during an American air strike on his Ryazan underground command center—and Darzov was it. He was blamed for making the decision to stage all of the Ilyushin-78 and Tupolev-16 tanker aircraft at one isolated air base in Siberia, Yakutsk, and for not providing enough security there, which allowed McLanahan and his Air Battle Force to take over the base and use the enormous amount of fuel stored there to be used by McLanahan's bombers to hunt down and destroy Russia's land-based nuclear deterrent force.