Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (48 page)

Turabi awoke lying on the hard desert floor. At first he couldn't open his eyes, and when he finally could, they stung from the billows of smoke wafting into his face. Someone was pouring water on top of his bare head. Every part of his body ached, and his face felt burned and raw. The smoke was gone, but his throat and lungs still felt coarse, and he could neither cough the congestion away nor take a deep enough breath to try harder.

His hands touched something brittle, yet it gave easily to pressure. Turabi knew that the tank was to his right, so he felt to his left to go around it. There was more brittle material that way. He felt farther left—and found a human arm. His fingers moved on their own now. He soon felt a torso, and then a chest. The corpse was not wearing a uniform—it was wearing robes. It was one of his men, a Taliban. He soon realized that the first thing he'd felt was the head, blasted open and burned.

Turabi quickly rolled to his other side, but moments later he encountered another body, this one even more heavily mangled and burned than the first. He realized with shock that he had been deliberately placed in the midst of a line of Taliban corpses.

“Try to stay still, sir,” he heard a familiar voice say. He turned and saw his first sergeant and aide, Abdul Dendara, sitting nearby. His face was almost completely black from smoke and burns, and his clothing was in tatters.

“What happened?” Turabi asked. “Have we been overrun?”

“Overrun?” Dendara looked puzzled for a long moment, and then his eyes brightened. “You don't know, sir?” he asked incredulously. “Of course not—you've been unconscious, maybe even in a coma, for most of the day. Your forces were victorious, sir!”

“What?”

“You had the Turkmen on the run. It's a good thing your helicopters came in when they did, because you were no more than even most of the battle, but you deployed your forces brilliantly and had the upper hand. The Turkmen ran like scared mice, with the Russians leading the retreat. The city of Mary is yours, sir. Congratulations.”

Six
|

That same time

F
our of the sixteen large, full-color screens at the back of the Battle Management Center at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base filled with the image of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Air Force General Richard Venti, speaking through the secure videoteleconference system in his office. Venti's uniform blouse and tie were gone, and a large glass of something with ice sat on the desk; Patrick couldn't see if it was just water or some after-hours beverage. Venti was absently juggling a fat Montblanc pen in his fingers, a habit he picked up from the endless mission briefings and debriefings he'd sat through during his Cold War fighter-pilot days pulling alert in Europe. “Go ahead, folks,” he said. “I see you fine now. Secretary Goff asked me to handle your request. He's standing by on a secure line if we need him.”

Patrick McLanahan sat forward at the command console. With him were David Luger, Rebecca Furness, Daren Mace, and John Long. “Sir, I've received a request from Deputy Secretary of State Hershel to provide security support for her upcoming trip to Bahrain and Turkmenistan.”

“We've received the request as well,” Venti said. “I got approval from SECDEF. Any problems on your end?”

“Just one, sir: I don't think it's enough,” Patrick McLanahan replied.

“Explain.”

“Sir, as part of the operational review of the situation in Turkmenistan, we launched a constellation of reconnaissance and eavesdropping satellites to monitor the situation there,” Patrick said. “We recently monitored a major battle between the Taliban insurgents and Turkmen regulars against the city of Mary, and we believe that the insurgents will have the city in their control within a matter of hours—and that means Russia will be directly threatened.”

“I received your report from Air Force, Patrick,” Venti said, “but, as I said in my reply, I don't see the hazard here other than what Deputy Secretary Hershel has already accepted. The Turkmen capital doesn't appear to be in danger currently. This would be a good time to initiate a diplomatic mission. If the fighting starts to spread west, I'm sure State will order an evacuation.”

“But I believe that the situation
has
become much worse, sir, even in the past two days,” Patrick said. “Flying a diplomatic mission into Turkmenistan right now might be an important thing to do to try to get control of this Taliban uprising and the possible repercussions should Russia counterattack, but it still places Deputy Secretary Hershel and President Martindale in grave danger.”

“It's part of the job,” Venti said. “If she or the president thought they'd be in real danger, I suppose they would send some other representative. The State Department deals with these kinds of dangers every day.” It was obvious in his voice that he wanted to wrap up this discussion—or maybe he didn't really believe what he was saying himself. “Thanks for your concern, Patrick. I'll forward your report to State. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

Venti stopped and looked at Patrick for a rather long moment. “Just for my edification, General: In case the situation did get worse between now and when Deputy Secretary Hershel's plane flies over Turkmenistan, what else would you have in mind?” He turned and typed something on his computer terminal, then read a page or two. “I have your entire unit mission plan right here in front of me, which I received from General Luger. Is this what you're talking about?”

“Sir, the Air Battle Force ground team has been mobilized. I would simply implement the rest of the total force,” Patrick explained. “The Air Battle Force travels and fights as a team, not as individuals. I agreed to provide security support for Deputy Secretary Hershel because I'm anxious to prove what our ground team can do, but the idea is to deploy as a team, even if the other elements are never utilized.”

“So you're suggesting . . . ?”

“I should be authorized to deploy the rest of the Air Battle Force,” Patrick said. “One Air Battle team, deployed and ready for action in-theater, with the rest of the Air Battle Force deployed to Diego Garcia or on fast alert here to back up the first team if necessary.”

Patrick could see General Venti wearily rubbing his temples, then leaning back in his seat. “I'll need to read over your unit mission plan again, Patrick, before I upchannel this.”

“Sir, Hershel is already on her way to Bahrain for updates and consultations. She goes on to Turkmenistan in under forty-eight hours,” Patrick said. “That gives us less than one day before we need to deploy—”

“I know, Patrick, I know,” Venti said irritably. “But there just hasn't been time to study all this. We were concerned about
funding
further development of your unit, not about actually
deploying
it in so short a time.”

“Sir . . .”

“Patrick, relax,” Venti interrupted. “I'll call the staff together and we'll get this on the secretary's desk right away, along with your report and your recommendations. But we can't accomplish everything instantly. If need be, we can recommend that Hershel's mission be postponed. But in all likelihood everything will proceed normally. She and Martindale will meet with the Turkmen government and the ambassadors from the different nations involved, then get the hell out of there. The Turkmen and Russians aren't crazy—they wouldn't dare threaten a U.S. diplomatic mission.”

“Yes, sir” was all Patrick could say.

Venti shook his head. “You did good work here, Patrick. Very heads-up—the kind of information I need from my field commanders. But the civilian side, especially the diplomatic side, is a whole other world. Sometimes everything we do is simply not enough. Our job is to give them the data and our recommended course of action.
They
make the decisions.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick responded neutrally.

Patrick's tone of voice rang an alarm in Richard Venti's head, and his attention immediately snapped back to the video screen. “General, I advise you to think carefully before you plan your next moves,” he said. Furness and Long could feel the weight of his stare even through the secure videoconference link. “I know you want to help, and you're doing so right now. But remember your recent history. I like the planning you and your staff do, and I encourage you to continue. But every time you decide to embark on some unauthorized activity, someone ends up getting hurt—usually yourself.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Make sure that you do, General. Anything else for me?”

“No, sir. Thank you for your time.”

“Thanks for your reports. I'll be in touch.”

The connection terminated. Patrick immediately called up the aircraft status board and a chart detailing the current locations of all the Air Battle Force's and 111th Wing's airborne aircraft. He ignored the alarmed shuffling Colonel Long was doing behind him. “General Luger.”

“Sir?”

“Generate and deploy the First Air Battle team immediately, and assume combat air-patrol operations over Turkmenistan. Assemble and deploy a combat-support group to Diego Garcia, and prepare ramp space and support facilities at Diego Garcia for combat operations. Then generate the Second Air Battle Team, and deploy them to Diego Garcia, configuration Gold.”

“What?”
John Long exclaimed.

“Yes,
sir,
” Luger responded, glaring at Long. He immediately sat down at the deputy commander's console and began typing in instructions. Seconds later Rebecca Furness turned away from the others as the duty officer called on her earpiece to notify her that her wing's aircraft were being recalled and tasked with a mission and deployment by the Air Battle Force.

“Excuse me, General, but didn't you hear what the chairman said?” Long asked incredulously. “He said
no unauthorized activity.
I was standing right here, and I didn't hear him authorize you to send any aircraft anywhere!”

“John . . .” Rebecca started.

“What is it with you, McLanahan?” Long dug in. “Do you think this Air Force exists for your own personal pleasure?”

“Colonel . . .”

“Or have you completely gone
insane?
”

“Colonel Long!”
Rebecca snapped.

Long turned to her in surprise.

“An L-hour has been declared by the Air Battle Force. Issue an immediate recall of all wing personnel and aircraft—”

“Rebecca,
what are you doing?
”

“Then generate the Alpha and Bravo Force aircraft in configuration Gold,” she went on, setting a timer on her watch—she knew that the duty officer would keep track of aircraft generation timing, but old habits died hard with veteran commanders like herself. “The Alpha Force crews should be ready for the prelaunch mission brief in L plus ten hours; the Bravo Force should be ready to go on ground alert in L plus eighteen. The wing battle staff will meet in the BATMAN in thirty minutes. An L-hour directs a Reserve Forces call-up, so you better notify the Nevada adjutant general and the governor of Nevada that the wing is commencing a full combat generation, and make sure they understand this is not an exercise.”

“Rebecca, we have absolutely no authority to be doing this,” Long sputtered. “It's patently illegal. McLanahan is going to make a fool out of us
again!
”

“Colonel Long, I haven't heard you order the duty officer to issue a wing recall.”

“And you won't, until we have a chance to talk,” Long shot back.

“Duty Officer,” Rebecca called, “notify Colonel Mace that he is now the wing operations-group commander. Colonel Long will assume the duties of the Fifty-first Squadron commander.”

“Yes, General Furness,” the electronic duty officer responded.

“Rebecca, damn it, listen to me!” Long shouted. He took her by the arm and physically moved her away from McLanahan and Luger.

Rebecca's eyes blazed, but she let him have his say.

“Rebecca, you can't do any of this. You can't follow an order knowing it's illegal. You've been through this before with McLanahan, and you've gotten busted. Don't trash your career again for the likes of
them
.”

“Colonel Long, you are to report back to the BATMAN in utility uniform and organize the Fifty-first Squadron recall until the battle-staff meeting—”

“I've got something to say first.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, then turned away from him and spoke: “Duty Officer, have Security Forces report to the BATMAN immediately and escort Colonel Long to his office, situation code yellow.”

“ ‘Yellow'? What do you think I am, damn it, a
terrorist?
”

“You've disobeyed orders and shown absolute disregard for rank or authority,” Rebecca said. “In my opinion you are not in full control of your emotions or senses, and I determine you are a risk to wing assets. Duty Officer, Colonel Long is to remain confined to his office incommunicado until further notice. Rescind my order making Colonel Long the Fifty-first's commander—show his specialty code as Eight-X. Notify Lieutenant Colonel Ricardo that he is now the Fifty-first Squadron's commander.”